IN   MEMORIAM 
BERNARD  MOSES 


THE  EVERY-DAY   PHILOSOPHER. 


By   the  same  Author, 


UNIFORM   WITH    THIS    VOLUME. 
THE   RECREATIONS 

OF   A 

COUNTRY  PARSON. 

FIRST  AND   SECOND  SERIES. 


LEISURE  HOURS  IN  TOWN. 

1  volume. 

III. 
THE  GRAVER  THOUGHTS 

OF   A 

COUNTRY     PARSON. 

1  volume. 


TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS,    PUBLISHERS. 


THE 


EYERY-DAY   PHILOSOPHER 


TOWN    AND    COUNTRY. 


BY  THE   AUTHOR  OF 
THE  RECREATIONS   OF  A  COUNTRY  PARSON. 


V 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS, 

1863. 


BERNARD  MOSES 


RIVERSIDE,   CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED   AND  PRINTED  BY    H.    0.   HOUdHTON. 


MAW 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FAGS 
TO    WORK   AGAIN 7 

CHAPTER  II. 

CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES  |  WITH  SOME  THOUGHTS 

ON    CURRENTS 19 

CHAPTER  III. 
CONCERNING   BEGINNINGS    AND    ENDS         .  .  .45 

CHAPTER  IV. 
GOING    ON 72 

CHAPTER  V. 

CONCERNING    DISAGREEABLE   PEOPLE        .  .  .119 

CHAPTER  VI. 

OUTSIDE 160 

CHAPTER  VII. 
GETTING    ON 183 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
AT  THE  LAND'S  END        .  ...  214 


783683 


vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

PAGE 
CONCERNING   RESIGNATION 232 

CHAPTER  X. 
CONCERNING    THINGS    WHICH   CANNOT    GO    ON  .    255 

CHAPTER  XI. 

CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING  :  WITH  SOME 
THOUGHTS  ON  TAMPERING  WITH  THE  COIN 
OF  THE  REALM 278 


CONCLUSION 817 


CHAPTER  I: 
TO  WORK  AGAIN. 


•  F  you  had  slept  last  night  in  any  one  of 
the  row  of  houses  which  forms  the  north 
side  of  a  certain  street  in  a  certain  'city, 
you  would  almost  certainly  have  been 
wakened  up  a  little  before  six  o'clock  this  morning  by 
a  most  dreadful  squall,  which  was  the  culmination  of 
a  stormy  night.  It  was  quite  dark.  The  rain  was 
driven  in  bitter  plashes  against  the  windows.  The 
windows  rattled,  the  doors  creaked,  the  very  walls 
seemed  to  tremble,  and  there  was  a  dismal  howling 
in  the  chimneys.  For  though  the  street  I  have  men 
tioned  has  the  city  all  round  it,  yet  the  ground  on 
which  it  is  built  slopes  so  much,  that  the  houses  catch 
the  unbroken  force  of  the  wind  from  the  not  distant 
sea.  And  from  the  upper  windows,  if  you  look  to 
the  north,  beyond  the  gleam  of  a  frith  six  miles  in 
breadth,  you  may  discern  a  range  of  hills,  not  far 
enough  distant  to  seem  blue. 

It  was  a  time  in  which  to  remember  those  who  are 
at  sea ;  and  to  be  thankful  that  you  were  safe  on  shore. 


8  TO  WORK  AGAIN. 

But  there  is  a  further  association  with  such  a  time, 
which  would  probably  be  present  to  the  mind  of  many 
who  in  former  days  studied  at  a  certain  ancient  Uni 
versity  which  the  writer  will  never  cease  to  hold  in 
affectidnaf.e  remembrance.  For  this  morning  was  one 
of  the  latest  mornings  of  October ;  and  on  the  self 
same  morning  ir*  time,  and  on  just  such  a  morning  for 
pleasantness,  has  many  a  student  risen  at  six  from  his 
bed,  that  he  might  be  present  in  the  lecture-room,  a 
mile  and  a  half  away,  at  half-past  seven.  On  the  pre 
vious  day,  he  had  gone  at  a  comfortable  forenoon  hour 
to  the  Common  Hall  of  the  University,  and  assisted 
at  the  ceremony  of  opening  the  session.  The  cere 
mony  was  a  simple  one.  Several  hundreds  of  students, 
arrayed  in  gowns  of  flaming  scarlet,  assembled  in  that 
plain  Hall ;  and  heard  the  Principal  give  a  short  ad 
dress  on  academic  dignity  and  duty.  And  if  the  stu 
dent  were  one  who  had  studied  at  the  University  in 
former  sessions,  he  would  be  cheered  up  somewhat  in 
the  prospect  of  resuming  his  studies  by  the  sight  of 
some  familiar  and  kindly  faces.  But  that  ceremony  in 
the  early  forenoon  was  but  the  gentle  introduction  to 
college-work ;  here  is  its  stern  reality.  I  am  well 
aware  that  human  beings  in  this  world  have  often 
times  very  dark  and  repulsive  prospects  to  face,  on 
rising  from  their  beds  in  the  morning  ;  and  I  could 
think  of  things  so  grave  as  awaiting  worthier  men, 
that  they  make  me  almost  ashamed  to  chronicle  lesser 
trials.  Yet  I  can  say,  from  sorrowful  experience,  that 


TO  WORK  AGAIN.  9 

duty  and  work  seldom  look  more  gloomy  and  disheart 
ening  than  they  do  to  a  student  of  that  ancient  Univer 
sity  of  which  the  writer  is  an  unworthy  son,  when  he 
gets  up  in  darkness  and  cold  and  hurricane;  and  has 
tens  through  mud  and  sleet  along  the  gloomy  streets 
to  the  lecture  at  half-past  seven. 

One  happy  result  follows.  During  all  the  re 
mainder  of  his  life,  the  man  who  for  three  long 
winters  in  succession,  each  beginning  about  the 
twenty-eighth  of  October,  and  reaching  on  till  the 
end  of  April,  has  undergone  that  discipline,  can 
never  cease  to  have  a  special  feeling  of  thankful 
ness  when  on  a  morning  of  late  October  or  early 
November  he  awakes  at  half-past  five  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  hears  the  rain  outside ;  and  then  reflects 
that  he  need  not  get  up  and  go  out.  The  remem 
brance  of  many  mornings  past  may  send  a  chill 
through  his  frame ;  and  various  worries  and  cares 
which  must  be  faced  at  rising  may  painfully  suggest 
themselves ;  yet  at  least  there  is  not  that  dismal 
rising  before  he  has  gathered  heart  to  face  the 
dreary  day. 

Things  which  were  very  far  from  pleasant  when 
they  occurred,  are  sometimes  very  pleasant  to  look 
back  on.  I  remember  well  how  through  months  of 
over-work  at  College,  anything  but  enjoyable  while 
they  passed  over,  I  kept  written  on  a  piece  of  paper, 
always  before  my  eyes,  Virgil's  line  which  says  so. 
I  can  see  it  yet,  in  large  letters  on  my  table ;  I  used 


10  TO  WORK  AGAIN. 

to  look  at  it,  in  the  silent  house,  at  half-past  three  in 
the  morning  before  going  to  bed,  and  to  repeat  it  over 
when  getting  up  wearily  at  half-past  six  again.  For- 
sitan  olim  hcec  meminisse  juvabit :  which  was  the 
graceful  classic  way  of  saying  that  there  is  a  good 
time  coming,  and  of  advising  sensible  folk  to  wait  a 
little  longer.  That  time  has  come  to  the  writer,  and 
to  many  of  his  friends.  We  like  to  talk,  when  we 
meet,  of  the  old  days  with  their  dismal  mornings.  It 
rejoiced  me,  between  five  and  six  this  morning,  to 
remember  these  things,  and  to  feel  the  force  of  the 
anniversary.  And  now,  when  a  new  generation  is 
gathering,  on  this  very  day,  within  the  gloomy  courts 
so  well  remembered,  the  recollection  does  no  worse 
than  call  up  in  the  writer  many  thoughts  of  the  varied 
ways  in  which  men  take  to  work  again.  Suffer  me 
to  say  here,  my  friendly  reader,  May  the  City  and 
the  University  flourish  together ;  according  to  the 
simple  and  straightforward  wish  of  the  pious  burgh 
ers  who  first  inscribed  the  motto  on  the  scutcheon  of 
the  ancient  town.  And  let  me  confess  that  I  have 
already  grown  so  old,  that  not  without  a  certain  mist 
that  dims  one's  eyes,  I  can  look  on  the  crowd  of  lads 
and  boys  (for  most  of  them  are  no  more)  in  the  Hall 
on  the  day  of  the  opening  of  a  session.  You  look 
back  yourself,  my  friend ;  and  from  a  record,  not  far 
to  seek,  you  are  able  to  discern  a  little  of  the  mis 
takes,  the  follies,  the  repentances,  the  humiliations, 
the  mortifications,  the  labors,  the  manifold  takings- 


TO  WORK  AGAIN.  11 

down,  which  await  those  hopeful  young  fellows,  before 
they  are  battered,  rudely  enough,  into  trim  for  sober 
life.  The  Duke  of  Wellington  said  that  all  war  was 
a  series  of  blunders  ;  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
blunders  and  repentances  make  up  great  part  of  the 
career  of  every  mortal,  especially  in  the  days  when 
he  begins  first  to  think  for  himself. 

The  winter  session,  which  is  the  only  one  of  the 
year  in  that  University  which  is  not  to  be  named 
here,  begins,  as  has  been  said,  about  the  twenty-sev 
enth  or  twenty-eighth  of  October.  The  vacation  has 
lasted  since  the  first  of  the  preceding  May.-  It  need 
not  be  said  that,  to  the  more  industrious  students,  that 
long  vacation  is  in  great  part  given  to  diligent  study  ; 
yet  it  is  always  study  to  which  your  own  sense  of 
duty  fixes  the  times  and  limits.  Now,  you  begin  to 
be  under  authority,  and  to  have  your  task  allotted  to 
you  from  day  to  day.  And  at  this  season,  it  is  a 
curious  thing  to  come  from  the  country  to  that  city. 
You  pass  at  a  step  from  autumn,  still  rich  with  color, 
into  winter,  gloomy  and  gray.  In  an  inland  country 
region,  late  October  is  often  a  charming  time ;  and 
the  landscape  has  its  own  touching  and  even  glowing 
beauty.  Though  many  leaves  have  fallen,  and  make 
a  dry  rustle  under  your  feet  as  you  go  through  wood 
land  ways,  yet  many  of  the  trees  are  thickly  clad  : 
some  wonderfully  green  ;  some  touched  by  decay  into 
beauty  and  glory,  in  the  still  sunshine  of  those  beau 
tiful  days  that  come.  And  the  dahlias  and  hollyhocks 


12  TO  WORK  AGAIN. 

are  blazing ;  for,  as  the  season  advances,  the  colors  of 
nature  deepen  ;  and  the  pale  and  delicate  hues  of  the 
early  snowdrops,  primroses,  and  lilies  pass  through 
the  gradation  of  summer  blossoms  and  roses  into  the 
glow  of  the  late  autumn  flowers.  It  is  as  gentle  maid 
enhood  passes  into  blooming  matronhood,  with  all  its 
qualities  more  pronounced.  And  coming  away  from 
the  country,  at  such  a  season,  I  dare  say  you  have 
thought  it  still  looking  almost  its  best.  But  all  these 
things  are  not,  in  the  great  city  of  that  ancient  Uni 
versity.  The  leaves  are  gone ;  all  the  country  round 
is  bare  and  bleak.  The  College-gardens,  large  and 
black-looking,  are  the  most  dismal  scene  that  ever 
bore  the  pleasant  name.  You  will  find  no  winding 
walks  through  thick  masses  of  evergreens,  which  in 
winter  rain  or  winter  frost  look  so  lifelike  and  warm 
and  cheering.  The  trees,  poor  and  stunted,  are  all 
deciduous  ;  and  their  leaves  are  not  merely  capable 
of  falling,  but  have  fallen  in  fact.  The  air  is  thick, 
and  smoke  abounds,  —  the  smoke  that  makes  the 
wealth  of  that  wealthy  city.  And  though  you  may 
be  willing  enough  to  set  to  work,  and  indeed  rather 
weary  of  idleness  or  desultory  study  for  some  weeks 
past,  you  will  probably  confess  that,  even  apart  from 
the  dismal  lectures  at  half-past  seven  in  the  morning, 
it  is  rather  a  sad  setting  to  work  again. 

Let  us  be  thankful,  my  friend,  if  our  work  be  such, 
that,  after  some  escape  from  it,  we  can  take  to  it 
again  cheerfully  and  willingly.  When  we  read  in 


TO  WORK  AGAIN.  13 

the  newspapers  about  the  reassembling  of  Parliament, 
the  general  effect  conveyed  to  one's  mind  is  a  pleas 
ant  one.  The  impression  left  with  us  is  that  the 
members  come  back  to  their  work  willingly  ;  they 
have  been  free  from  it  so  long  that  the  appetite  for 
the  kind  of  thing  has  revived  ;  and  each  man  rises 
that  morning  with  a  positive  feeling  of  exhilaration  as 
he  looks  on  to  the  event  of  the  day.  It  is  not  as 
it  was  with  Napoleon,  even  when  he  was  Emperor. 
You  remember  how  he  enjoyed  his  Saturday  and  Sun 
day  in  the  country  quiet ;  and  how  on  Sunday  night 
he  was  accustomed  to  say,  thinking  of  his  return 
next  morning  to  Paris  and  the  cares  of  state,  "  To 
morrow  I  must  put  on  the  yoke  of  misery  again." 
Many  people,  young  and  old,  feel  as  Napoleon  felt. 
There  is  the  heart-sinking  of  the  nervous  little  boy, 
going  back  to  school  after  the  holidays,  with  vague 
fears  of  evil.  There  is  the  apprehension  of  a  great 
mercantile  man,  entering  upon  a  season  in  which  he 
foresees  many  painful  difficulties  and  complications, 
and  does  not  know  how  things  may  turn  out.  It  is 
as  with  the  little  bark,  which,  from  a  sheltered  nook 
where  it  was  lying  snug  and  safe,  puts  out  unwillingly 
into  the  full  fury  of  winds  and  waves.  And  even 
coming  back  to  work  which  you  like,  and  to  which 
you  thankfully  feel  yourself  in  some  degree  equal, 
there  is  a  certain  shrinking  from  putting  the  shoul 
der  to  the  collar  again,  and  going  stoutly  at  your  task. 
There  is  a  certain  inertia,  a  certain  nervous  timidity, 


14  TO   WORK  AGAIN. 

to  be  overcome.     You  would  like  to  quietly  sit  still 
where  you  are,  and  hide  your  head  in  a  hole. 

You  will  feel  this,  I  think,  in  coming  back  from 
your  autumn  holiday-time  ;  especially  if  you  live  and 
work  in  town.  Human  beings  are  never  content. 
When  you  lived  entirely  in  the  country,  it  is  very 
likely  you  used  to  think  how  pleasant  and  cheerful 
it  would  be  to  spend  the  dead  months  of  the  year  in 
town  ;  and  just  as  the  season  is  darkening  down  to 
winter,  and  the  country  beginning  to  look  bleak  and 
desolate,  to  get  in  among  the  warm  dwellings  and 
multitudes  of  your  fellow-men.  But  now,  if  your 
home  be  in  the  city,  you  probably  think,  about  this 
season,  how  enjoyable  a  thing  it  is  to  stay  on  in  the 
country  still,  watching  the  stages  through  which  it 
passes  into  its  winter  aspect;  feeling  the  weather  so 
much  nearer  you,  and  so  much  a  greater  part  of  your 
life,  than  it  is  in  the  town  ;  looking  for  the  days  of 
the  Martinmas  summer,  beautiful  as  any  in  all  the 
year ;  waiting  for  the  exhilaration  of  the  frost,  and 
the  silence  of  the  snow  ;  and  finding  a  value  in  the 
dreariest  aspect  of  fields  and  hills  and  roads,  for  the 
hearty  thankfulness  with  which  it  teaches  you  to  en 
joy  the  warm  fireside,  and  light  and  books  and  music. 
It  is  October  that  gathers  many  men  into  town  to 
work  again,  the  yearly  holidays  over.  And  if  you  be 
a  working  man,  who  must  earn  your  family's  support 
by  your  labor,  you  may  be  pleased  if  you  have  had 
six  weeks  or  two  months  of  rest.  If  you  have  been 


TO  WORK  AGAIN.  15 

away  from  work  during  the  chief  part  of  August  and 
September,  Nemesis  might  well  be  angry  if  you  were 
to  complain  of  coming  back  now  as  a  hardship.  Still 
you  shrink  a  little.  Nobody  quite  enjoys  the  idea  of 
setting  to  work  again  ;  unless,  indeed,  his  vacation 
have  been  so  long  that  it  has  ceased  to  be  enjoyed  as 
rest,  and  come  to  be  felt  merely  as  the  misery  of 
idleness. 

I  suppose  it  is  in  human  nature,  that,  after  living  for 
a  while  in  a  pleasant  place,  you  should  shrink  from  leav 
ing  it :  many  people  find  it  costs  them  a  painful  effort  to 
go  away  from  their  home  ;  but,  once  away,  they  can 
quite  easily  stay  away  a  long  time.  Inertia  is  unques 
tionably  a  property  of  mind  as  well  as  of  matter. 
We  don't  like  to  move.  Likely  enough,  my  friend,  in 
the  autumn  of  this  year,  we  have  each  been  in  half 
a  dozen  places,  in  any  one  of  which  we  should  have 
been  content  to  have  stayed  all  our  days.  And  though 
no  one  can  be  fonder  of  his  duty  than  yourself,  my 
friend,  or  more  pleased  with  the  place  where  God  has 
cast  your  lot ;  though  it  was  a  great  strain  and  exer 
tion  to  you  to  go  away  from  both ;  yet  it  was  a  consid 
erable  strain  and  exertion  to  rise  and  come  back. 

Yes,  it  is  a  curious  feeling  you  have,  in  coming 
away  from  any  place  which/ has  been  your  home  for 
even  a  short  time ;  and  there  are  not  many  things,  be 
sides  actual  physical  pain,  to  which  it  does  not  cost  a 
little  pang  to  say  Good-by.  The  thoughtful  reader 
has  probably  remarked  how  different  a  place  looks 


16  TO  WORK  AGAIN. 

when  you  are  coming  away  from  it,  from  what  it  ever 
looked  before.  You  observe,  almost  with  a  start,  a 
great  many  little  things  and  relations  of  things  about 
it,  which  you  never  previously  observed.  All  the 
familiar  objects  seem  dumbly  asking  you  to  stay. 
And  you  must  know  the  feeling  by  your  own  experi 
ence  before  you  can  rightly  understand  it.  You  can 
not  evolve  it,  a  priori,  out  of  your  own  consciousness. 
You  may  try  to  imagine  what  it  would  be  like ;  but 
you  cannot.  Well  does  this  writer  remember  how,  in 
the  days  when  he  was  a  country  clergyman,  he  used 
sometimes  to  pace  up  and  down  a  certain  little  walk, 
every  shrub  by  whose  side  had  the  look  of  an  old 
friend  ;  and  to  wonder  what  the  feeling  would  be,  and 
what  the  place  would  look  like,  if  he  should  ever  go 
away  from  it.  But  in  those  days  he  never  thought 
he  would;  and  his  imagination  would  not  serve  him. 
And  when  the  day,  vaguely  anticipated,  came  at  last, 
every  familiar  holly  and  yew  wore  a  new  face ;  and 
the  aspect  of  the  whole  scene  was  one  never  beheld 
before.  In  a  lesser  degree,  but  still  a  very  apprecia 
ble  degree,  you  feel  all  this  in  quitting  a  place  where 
you  have  been  staying  for  even  six  weeks.  And  you 
will  be  aware  of  a  certain  cheerlessness  and  desolate- 
ness,  till  your  roots,  thus  torn  up,  get  buried  anew  in 
the  earth  of  your  familiar  home  and  its  interests. 
Once  fairly  amid  your  own  belongings  and  duties 
again,  and  you  are  all  right.  Your  home  seemed 
misty  and  unsubstantial  while  you  were  far  away  from 


TO  WORK  AGAIN.  17 

it ;  but  here  it  is  again,  real  and  warm,  and  with  a 
general  look  of  not  unpleased  recognition.  And  if 
you  and  I,  my  reader,  in  any  degree  deserve  them, 
some  kind  looks  and  words  of  welcome,  in  the  first 
busy  days  of  somewhat  confused  occupation,  may 
probably  warm  and  cheer  our  spirit,  and  make  us  set 
with  all  the  more  hope  and  heart  to  work  again. 

There  is  no  pleasanter  incident  in  the  little  history 
of  this  time  of  return  to  very  arduous  duty,  than  the 
sending  out  of  these  Essays,  which  have  been  written 
in  months  past,  as  some  not  unsalutary  change  of  occu 
pation  from  graver  thoughts  and  labors.  The  writer 
trusts  that  they  may  fall  into  the  right  hands.  Cer 
tain  volumes,  which  the  friendly  reader  may  know, 
have  done  so  ;  and  have  gained  for  the  writer  the 
approval  of  various  wise  and  good  men,  whose  ap 
proval  is  to  him  among  the  most  prized  of  earthly 
possessions.  If  these  pages  should  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  man  they  do  not  suit,  I  hope  he  will  not  take 
the  trouble  of  reading  them ;  he  has  but  to  close  the 
volume,  and  they  will  worry  him  no  more.  But  the 
people  for  whom  the  author  writes  will  understand 
easily  that  these  chapters  contain  thoughts  which  are 
not  unconsidered,  and  which  aim  at  something  beyond 
,  the  mere  amusement  of  a  vacant  hour. 

In  closing  a  former  volume,  I  said  I  hoped  the 
chapters  it  contained  might  not  be  the  last.  And 
now  I  am  very  pleased  and  thankful  that  the  wish 
2 


18  TO  WORK  AGAIN. 

has  been  indulged.  It  is  but  a  little  part  of  a  life, 
devoted  to  the  most  solemn  and  the  happiest  of  all 
work,  that  has  been  spared  to  these  Essays.  But 
they  have  found  an  audience  vastly  wider  than  the 
writer's  voice  could  reach,  or  than  will  ever  listen  to 
his  sermons.  And  believing  what  I  like  to  believe, 
not  in  self-conceit,  but  in  thankfulness,  I  receive  and 
cherish  the  assurance  of  very  many  who  have  told  me 
that  the  reading  of  these  pages  did  some  little  good  to 
them;  as  the  writing  of  these  pages  has  done  some 
little  good  to  myself. 


CHAPTER  II. 
CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES; 

WITH    SOME    THOUGHTS     ON     CURRENTS. 

AM  not  going  to  write  an  essay  on  Ven 
tilation,  important  as  that  subject  unques 
tionably  is ;  nor  am  I  about  to  enter  into 
any  discussion  of  the  various  elements  of 
which  the  air  we  breathe  is  made  up.  I  am  aware, 
indeed,  that  for  the  maintenance  of  animal  and  intellec 
tual  energy  in  their  best  state,  it  is  expedient  that  the 
atmosphere  should  contain  a  certain  amount  of  ozone  ; 
but  what  ozone  is  I  do  not  know,  and  neither,  I  believe, 
does  any  one  else.  And  on  the  matter  of  material  cur 
rents,  whether  ocean  currents,  atmospheric  currents,  or 
river  currents,  I  am  not  competent  to  afford  the  scien 
tific  reader  much  information.  I  know,  indeed,  as 
most  people  know,  that  it  is  well  for  Britain  that  the 
warm  Gulf  Stream  sets  upon  our  shores.  I  read  in 
the  newspapers  how  bottles  thrown  into  the  sea  turn 
up  in  distant  and  surprising  places.  I  am  aware  that 
the  Trade  Winds  blow  steadily  from  west  to  east. 


20  CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

And  I  have  sat  tranquilly,  and  looked  intently  at  the 
onward  flow  of  streams ;  from  the  slow  and  smooth 
canal-like  river  that  silently  steals  on  through  the  rich 
level  English  landscape,  to  the  wild  Highland  torrent 
that  tears  down  its  rocky  bed,  in  white  foam  and 
thunder. 

But  what  I  wish,  my  reader,  that  you  and  I  should 
do  at  present,  is  to  take  a  large  view  of  the  case,  not 
needing  any  special  knowledge  of  physical  science. 
Let  us  remember  just  this,  that  the  atmosphere  in 
which  we  live  is  something  that  touches  and  affects  us 
at  every  inch  of  our  superficies,  and  at  every  moment 
of  our  life.  It  is  not  to  say  merely  that  we  breathe 
it ;  but  that  it  exerts  upon  every  part  of  us,  inner  and 
outer,  an  influence  which  never  ceases,  and  which, 
though  possibly  not  much  marked  at  the  time,  produces 
in  the  long  run  a  very  great  and  decided  effect.  You 
draw  in  the  air  from  ague-laden  fens,  and  you  do  not 
find  anything  very  particular  in  each  breath  you  draw. 
But  breathe  that,  and  live  in  that,  for  a  few  weeks  or 
months,  and  see  what  will  come  to  you.  Or  you  go 
in  the  autumn,  weak  and  weary  with  the  season's  work 
and  worry,  jaded  and  nervous,  to  the  sea-side,  and  the 
bracing  atmosphere  in  a  little  while  insensibly  does  its 
work ;  your  limbs  grow  strong  and  active  again,  and 
your  mind  grows  energetic  and  hopeful.  And  you 
have  doubtless  felt  for  yourself  how  the  heavy,  smoky 
air  of  a  large  city  makes  you  dull  and  stupid,  and  how 
the  sparkling  draughts  you  draw  in  of  the  keen,  un- 


CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES.        21 

breathed  air  of  the  mountains,  exhilarate  and  nerve 
anew.  And  as  for  currents,  without  going  into  de 
tails,  we  know  this  general  fact :  If  you  cast  a  floating 
thing  upon  a  current,  it  will  insensibly  go  along  with 
the  current.  There  may  not  be  a  stronger  or  a  more 
perceptible  push  at  one  moment  than  at  another ;  but 
there  is  an  influence  which  in  the  main  is  unceasing, 
and  there  is  a  general  drifting  away.  Slowly,  slowly, 
the  log  cast  into  the  sea,  out  in  the  middle  of  the  At 
lantic,  comes  eastward,  week  by  week,  till  it  is  thrown 
somewhere  on  the  outer  coast  of  Ireland  or  of  the 
Hebrides.  And  when  the  thing  cast  upon  the  current 
is  more  energetic  than  a  log,  still  the  current  affects  it 
none  the  less  really.  The  Mississippi  steamer  breasts 
that  great  turbid  stream,  and  makes  way  against  it ; 
but  it  makes  way  slowly.  Let  the  engines  cease  to 
work,  and  the  steamer  drifts  as  the  log  drifted.  Or 
let  the  engines  work  as  before,  and  the  vessel's  head 
be  turned  down  the  stream ;  and  then,  going  with  the 
current,  its  speed  is  doubled. 

Now,  the  atmosphere  I  mean  in  this  essay  is  the 
atmosphere  in  which  the  soul  lives  and  breathes ;  and 
the  currents,  those  which  carry  along  the  moral  and 
spiritual  nature  to  developments  better  or  worse. 
Shall  we  say  it,  for  the  most  part  to  worse  ?  In  this 
world,  in  a  moral  sense,  we  generally  drift  towards 
evil,  if  we  drift  at  all.  You  must  warp  up  the  stream 
if  you  would  advance  towards  good.  It  seems  to  be 
God's  purpose  that  anything  good  must  be  attained  by 


22  CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

effort :  if  you  slothfully  go  with  the  current,  it  will  be 
only  to  ill. 

I  am  not  able,  just  now,  to  give  you  a  definition  of 
either  moral  atmospheres  or  moral  currents  which  satis 
fies  me.  You  will  gradually  see  my  meaning,  if  you 
do  not  see  it  yet.  Let  it  be  said,  generally,  that  to  fol 
low  inclination  within,  or  to  yield  to  the  vague  influ 
ence  of  the  things  and  people  around  you,  is  to  drift 
with  the  moral  current.  And  sensitively  to  feel  the 
moral  influences  amid  which  you  live  —  the  moral 
influences  arising  from  external  nature,  or  from  the 
dwelling  in  which  you  live,  or  from  the  people  with 
whom  you  associate,  or  from  the  books  and  news 
papers  and  magazines  and  reviews  you  read  —  is  to 
feel  the  moral  atmosphere.  And  a  very  great  part  of 
the  influence  which  moulds  human  character,  and  de 
cides  human  destiny,  is  of  this  vague,  yet  pervading 
kind.  A  tree,  I  am  told,  draws  the  chief  part  of  its 
nourishment  from  the  air,  —  very  much  more  than  it 
draws  from  the  earth  through  its  roots.  The  tree 
must  have  roots,  or  it  would  not  live  or  grow  at  all ; 
yet  the  multitude  of  leaves  draw  in  that  by  which  it 
mainly  lives  and  grows.  And  it  seems  to  me  to  be  so 
with  human  beings.  We  must  be  morally  rooted  and 
grounded,  as  it  were,  by  direct  education,  and  by  di 
rectly  getting  principles  fixed  in  our  minds.  But  after 
this  is  done,  we  mainly  take  our  tone  from  the  moral 
atmosphere.  We  are  mainly  affected  by  moral  cur 
rents  ;  and  just  as  really  when  we  strive  against  them 
as  when  we  yield  to  them. 


CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES.        23 

I  am  sure  you  know  that  a  great  many  of  the  things 
we  read  —  books,  periodicals,  and  the  like  —  affect  us 
not  so  much  by  the  ideas  they  convey,  as  by  the  gen 
eral  atmosphere  with  which  they  surround  us.  If  you 
read,  week  by  week,  a  clever,  polished,  cynical,  heart 
less  publication,  it  will  do  you  harm  insensibly ;  it  will 
mould  and  color  your  ways  of  thinking  and  feeling 
much  more  than  you  would  think.  You  like  its  talent, 
you  know  :  but  you  disapprove,  sometimes  very  keenly, 
its  general  character  and  tone ;  and  you  think  you  are 
so  on  your  guard  against  these,  inwardly  protesting 
against  them  each  time  you  feel  them,  that  no  effect 
will  be  produced  by  them  upon  you.  You  are  mis 
taken  in  thinking  so.  You  breathe  and  live  in  a  moral 
atmosphere,  which  is  quite  sure  to  tell  on  you.  You 
are  cast  on  a  current ;  and  it  needs  constant  pulling 
against  it  to  keep  you  from  drifting  with  it.  And  your 
moral  nature  is  not  (so  to  speak)  ever  on  the  stretch 
with  the  oars ;  ever  in  an  attitude  of  resistance  to  the 
malaria.  Yes ;  that  clever,  heartless,  cynical  paper 
will  leave  its  impress  on  you  by  degrees.  And  on  the 
other  side,  you  know  that  the  influence  of  writings 
which  are  not  obtrusively  instructive,  may  sink  gently 
into  our  nature  and  do  us  much  good.  There  is  not 
much  formal  teaching  in  them  ;  but  as  you  read  them, 
you  feel  you  are  breathing  a  general  healthy  atmos 
phere  ;  you  are  aware  of  a  quiet  but  decided  and 
powerful  current,  setting  steadily  towards  what  is 
good  and  magnanimous  and  true. 


24  CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

No  doubt,  friendly  reader,  you  feel  that  what  I  have 
said  is  just.  In  talking  to  people,  in  living  in  places, 
in  reading  books,  you  feel  the  atmosphere ;  you  are 
aware  of  the  current.  I  do  not  speak  to  people  whose 
moral  nature  is  callous  as  the  hide  of  the  rhinoceros, 
and  who  never  feel  the  moral  atmosphere  at  all.  You 
might  endeavor  to  prick  a  rhinoceros  with  a  pin  for 
some  time  without  awaking  any  sensation  in  that  ani 
mal.  And  there  are  human  beings  who,  it  is  quite 
evident  from  their  conversation  and  their  doings  on 
various  occasions,  are  as  little  sensitive  to  the  moral 
atmosphere,  and  the  laws  and  proprieties  which  arise 
out  of  it,  as  the  rhinoceros  is  to  the  very  bluntest  pin. 
They  are  not  aware  of  any  influence  weaker  than  a 
physical  push  ;  as  you  remember  the  man  who  would 
take  no  hint  less  marked  than  a  kicking.  But  you 
know,  my  friend,  that  in  talking  to  different  people, 
you  insensibly  take  your  tone  from  them ;  and  you 
talk  in  a  way  accommodated  to  the  particular  case. 
There  are  people  to  whom,  unawares,  and  without 
.purpose  prepense,  you  find  yourself  talking  in  a  loud, 
lively  manner,  which  is  far  from  your  usual  one. 
There  are  others  to  whom  you  insensibly  speak  in  a 
quiet,  thoughtful  way.  And  you  cannot  help  this  ; 
it  is  just  that  you  feel  the  atmosphere,  and  yield  to  it. 
It  is  as  when  you  go  out  on  a  crisp  frosty  day,  and 
without  any  special  intention  to  that  effect,  find  your 
self  walking  smartly  and  briskly  along.  But  if  it  be  a 
still,  sunshiny  October  afternoon,  amid  the  brown  and 


CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES.  25 

golden  woods,  you  will  unconsciously  accommodate 
yourself  to  the  surroundings  :  you  will  (if  there  be  no 
special  call  for  haste)  walk  pensively  and  slow.  Now, 
some  may  unjustly  fancy,  as  they  remark  how  differ 
ent  your  demeanor  is  in  the  society  of  different  people, 
that  you  are  an  impostor,  —  a  hypocrite,  —  not  to  say 
a  humbug  ;  that  you  are  falsely  assuming  a  manner 
foreign  to  your  own,  that  you  may  suit  the  different 
people  with  whom  you  converse.  It  is  not  so.  There 
is  no  design  in  what  you  do.  You  are  not  desiring  to 
please  the  loud  man  by  assuming  a  loud  manner,  re 
flecting  his  ;  as  I  have  heard  of  some  one  who  was 
regarded  as  having  paid  a  delicate  but  effective  com 
pliment  to  a  great  man  who  wore  a  very  odd  waistcoat, 
by  presenting  himself  in  the  presence  of  the  great 
man,  clad  in  a  waistcoat  exactly  like  his  own.  There 
is  nothing  of  that  kind  ;  nothing  insincere ;  nothing 
flunkeyish.  It  is  only  that  you  have  a  sensitive  na 
ture,  which  feels  the  atmosphere  in  which  it  is  placed 
for  the  time.  You  know  how  mercury  in  frost  feels 
the  cold,  and  shrinks  ;  it  cannot  help  it.  Then  in 
warm  weather  it  expands  by  the  necessity  of  its  na 
ture.  It  always  appeared  to  me  in  my  childhood  that 
Dr.  Watts  effectually  justifies  the  most  offensive  de 
portment  on  the  part  of  dogs,  by  suggesting  that  it  is 
their  Maker's  intention  they  they  should  exhibit  such 
a  deportment.  There  is  a  passage,  not  much  known, 
in  a  lyric  by  that  poet,  which  runs  to  the  effect :  "  Let 
dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite,  for  God  has  made  them 


26        CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

so."  If  the  fact  be  admitted,  the  principle  is  sound  ; 
but  as  judicious  discipline  can  greatly  diminish  the 
tendency  of  these  animals  to  bark  and  bite,  I  doubt 
whether  the  words  of  Dr.  Watts  are  to  be  construed 
in  their  full  meaning.  But  there  can  be  no  question 
that  mercury,  which  is  a  substance  not  accessible  to 
moral  considerations,  deserves  neither  blame  nor  praise 
for  expanding  and  shrinking  according  to  its  nature. 
And  while  I  admit  that  any  doings  of  human  beings, 
partaking  of  a  moral  element,  are  (in  the  main)  so 
under  the  control  of  the  will,  that  the  human  beings 
may  justly  be  held  responsible  for  them,  I  hold  that 
this  sensitiveness  to  the  moral  atmosphere  is  very 
much  a  matter  of  original  constitution,  and  that  the 
man  who  feels  it  may  fairly  plead  that  his  Maker 
"  made  him  so."  And  very  many  people  —  shall  we 
say  the  most  exquisitely  constituted  of  the  race?  — 
discern  the  moral  atmosphere  which  surrounds  some 
men  by  a  delicate  and  unerring  intuition.  There  are 
men  who  bring  with  them  a  frosty  atmosphere ;  there 
are  men  who  bring  a  sunshiny.  You  know  people 
whose  stiffness  of  manner  freezes  up  the  frankest  and 
most  genial.  You  know  there  are  people  to  whom  you 
would  no  more  think  of  talking  of  the  things  which 
interest  you  most,  than  you  would  think  of  talking  to 
a  horse ;  or,  let  us  say,  to  a  donkey.  Do  you  suppose 
that  I  should  show  my  marked  copy  of  In  Memoriam 
to  either  my  friend  Dr.  Log,  or  my  friend  Mr.  Snarl 
ing  ? 


CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES.        27 

I  dare  say  some  of  my  readers,  going  to  see  an  ac 
quaintance,  have  walked  into  his  study,  and  found 
themselves,  physically,  in  a  choky,  confined,  hot-house 
atmosphere.  And  on  entering  into  conversation  with 
the  man  in  the  study  they  have  found,  morally,  the 
same  thing  repeated.  The  moral  atmosphere  was  just 
the  physical  over  again.  You  remember  the  morbid 
views,  the  uncharitable  judgments,  the  despondency 
of  tone.  And  I  think  your  inward  exclamation  was, 
Oh,  for  fresh  air,  physically  and  morally  !  And,  indeed, 
I  can  hardly  believe  that  sound  and  healthy  judgments 
are  ever  come  to,  or  that  manly  and  truthful  thoughts 
are  produced,  except  when  the  physical  atmosphere  is 
pure  and  healthful.  I  would  not  attach  much  im 
portance  to  the  vote,  upon  some  grave  matter  of  prin 
ciple,  which  is  come  to  by  an  excited  mob  of  even 
educated  men,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  an 
atmosphere  so  thoroughly  pestilential  that  it  might 
knock  a  man  down.  And  there  are  houses,  on  entering 
which  you  feel  directly  the  peculiar  moral  atmosphere. 
It  is  oppressive.  It  catches  your  throat ;  it  gets  into 
your  lungs  ;  it  (morally)  puts  a  bad  taste  into  your 
mouth.  There  are  dwellings  which,  even  in  a  physical 
sense,  seem  never  to  have  fresh  air  thoroughly  admit 
ted ;  never  to  have  the  lurking  malaria  that  hangs  in 
corners  and  about  window-curtains  thoroughly  cleared 
out,  and  the  pure  fresh  air  of  heaven  let  in  to  fill 
every  inch  of  space.  There  are  more  dwellings  where 
this  is  so  in  a  moral  sense.  You  enter  such  a  dwell- 


28  CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

ing ;  you  talk  to  the  people  in  it.  You  at  once  feel 
oppressed.  You  feel  stupid  ;  worse  than  that,  you 
feel  sore  and  cantankerous.  You  feel  you  are  grow 
ing  low-minded.  Anything  like  magnanimity  or  gen 
erosity  goes  out  of  you.  You  listen  to  wretched  sneers 
against  everything  that  is  good  or  elevating.  You 
find  a  series  of  miserable  little  doings  and  misdoings 
dwelt  upon  with  weary  iteration  and  bitter  exaggera 
tion.  You  hear  base  motives  suggested  as  having 
really  prompted  the  best  people  you  know  to  their 
best  doings.  Did  you  ever  spend  an  evening  in  the 
society  of  a  cynical,  sneering  man,  with  some  measure 
of  talent  and  energy  ?  You  remember  how  you  heard 
anything  noble  or  disinterested  laughed  at ;  how  you 
heard  selfish  motives  ascribed  to  everybody  ;  how  some 
degrading  association  was  linked  with  everything  pure 
and  excellent.  Did  you  not  feel  deteriorated  by  that 
evening  ?  Did  you  not  feel  that  (morally)  you  were 
breathing  the  atmosphere  of  a  sewer  or  a  pigsty  ? 
And  even  when  the  atmosphere  was  not  so  bad  as 
that,  you  have  known  the  houses  of  really  excellent 
folk,  which  were  pervaded  by  such  a  stiffness,  such  an 
unnatural  repression  of  all  natural  feeling,  such  a  sense 
of  constraint  of  soul,  that  when  you  fairly  got  out  of 
the  house  at  last,  you  would  have  liked  to  express 
your  relief,  and  to  give  way  to  your  pent-up  energies, 
by  wildly  dancing  on  the  pavement  before  the  door 
like  a  Red  Indian.  And,  indeed,  you  might  very 
probably  have  done  so,  but  for  the  dread  of  the  po- 


CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES.  29 

lice  ;  and  for  the  fear  that,  even  through  the  dark, 
you  might  be  discerned  by  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Grundy. 
Some  people  are  so  energetic  and  so  much  in  ear 
nest,  that  they  diffuse  about  them  an  atmosphere  which 
is  keenly  felt  by  most  men.  And  it  often  happens 
that  you  are  very  much  affected  by  the  moral  in 
fluence  of  people,  from  almost  all  whose  opinions  you 
differ.  I  have  no  doubt  that  human  beings  who  differ 
from  Dr.  Arnold  and  Mr.  Hughes  on  almost  every 
point  of  belief,  have  been  greatly  influenced,  and  in 
fluenced  for  the  better,  by  these  good  men.  There  is 
something  in  the  atmosphere  that  breathes  from  both 
of  them  that  tends  to  higher  and  purer  ways  of  think 
ing  and  feeling;  that  tends  to  make  you  act  more 
constantly  from  principle,  and  to  make  you  feel  the 
solemnity  of  this  life.  And  without  supposing  any 
special  good  fortune  in  the  case  of  the  reader,  I  may 
take  for  granted  that  you  have  known  two  or  three 
persons  whose  presence  you  felt  like  a  constant  rebuke 
to  anything  mean  or  wrong  in  thought  or  deed,  and 
like  a  constant  stimulus  to  things  good  and  worthy. 
You  have  known  people,  in  the  atmosphere  of  whose 
influence  the  evil  in  your  nature  seemed  cowed  and 
abashed.  It  seemed  to  die  out  like  a  nettle  in  frost ; 
that  clear,  brisk,  healthy  atmosphere  seemed  to  kill  it. 
And  you  may  have  known  men,  after  reading  whose 
pages,  or  listening  to  whose  talk,  you  felt  more  of 
kindly  charity  towards  all  your  brethren  in  the  help 
lessness  and  sinfulness  of  humanity.  Of  course,  to 


30  CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

diffuse  a  powerful  influence,  whether  towards  evil  or 
good,  a  man  must  possess  great  force  and  earnestness 
of  character.  Ordinary  mortals  are  like  the  chame 
leon,  which  takes  something  of  the  color  of  any  strong- 
colored  object  it  is  placed  near.  They  take  their  tone 
very  much  from  the  more  energetic  folk  with  whom 
they  are  placed  in  contact.  I  dare  say  you  have  known 
a  man  who  powerfully  influences  for  good  the  whole 
circle  of  men  that  surrounds  him.  Such  a  one  must 
have  a  vast  stock  of  vital  and  moral  energy.  Most 
people  are  like  the  electric  eel,  very  much  exhausted 
after  having  given  forth  their  influence.  A  few  are 
like  an  electric  battery,  of  resources  so  vast  that  it  can 
be  pouring  out  its  energy  without  cease.  There  are 
certain  physical  characteristics  which  often,  though 
not  always,  go  with  this  moral  characteristic.  It  is 
generally  found  in  connection  with  a  loud,  manly 
voice,  a  burly  figure,  a  very  frank  address.  Not  al 
ways,  indeed  ;  there  have  been  puny,  shrinking,  silent 
men,  who  mightily  swayed  their  fellow-men,  whether 
to  evil  or  to  good.  But  in  the  presence  of  the  stronger 
physical  nature,  you  feel  something  tending  to  make 
you  feel  cheerful,  hopeful,  energetic.  -  I  have  known 
men  who  seemed  always  surrounded  by  a  healthy, 
bracing  atmosphere.  When  with  such,  I  defy  you  to 
feel  down-hearted,  or  desponding,  or  slothful.  They 
put  new  energy,  hopefulness,  and  life  into  "you.  Yes, 
rny  reader,  perhaps  you  have  found  it  for  yourself, 
that  to  gain  the  friendship  of  even  one  energetic, 


CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES.        31 

thoughtful,  good  man,  may  suffice  to  give  a  new  and 
healthier  tone  to  your  whole  life.  Yes,  the  influence 
of  such  a  one  may  insensibly  reach  through  all  you 
think,  feel,  and  do ;  as  the  material  atmosphere  per 
vades  all  material  things.  And  such  an  influence 
may  be  exerted  either  through  a  fiery  energy,  or  by 
an  undefinable,  gentle  fascination.  I  believe  that 
most  men  felt  the  first  of  these,  who  knew  much  of 
Dr.  Chalmers.  I  believe  that  many  have  felt  the 
second  of  these,  in  their  intercourse  with  Dr.  Newman 
or  Mr.  Jowett.  Possibly,  we  might  classify  mankind 
under  two  divisions  :  the  little  band  whose  pith  or 
whose  fascination  is  such  that  they  give  the  tone, 
good  or  bad  ;  that  they  diffuse  the  atmosphere ;  and 
the  larger  host,  whose  soul  is  receptive  rather  than 
diffusive  ;  the  great  multitude  of  human  beings  who 
take  the  tone,  feel  the  atmosphere,  and  go  with  the 
current.  It  is  probable  that  a  third  class  ought  to 
be  added,  including  those  who  never  felt  anything, 
particularly,  at  all. 

When  you  first  enter  a  new  moral  atmosphere,  you 
feel  it  very  keenly.  But  you  grow  less  sensitive  to 
it  daily,  as  you  become  accustomed  to  it.  It  may  be 
producing  its  moral  effect  as  really ;  but  you  are  not 
so  much  aware  of  its  presence.  Did  you  ever  go  to  a 
place  new  to  you,  of  very  unusual  and  striking  aspect ; 
and  did  you  wonder  if  people  there  lived  just  as  they 
do  in  the  commonplace  scenes  amid  which  you  live  ? 
Let  me  confess  that  I  cannot  look  at  the  pictures  of 


32        CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

the  quaint  old  towns  of  Belgium,  without  vaguely  ask 
ing  myself  that  question.  In  a  lesser  degree,  the  fancy 
steals  in,  even  as  one  walks  the  streets  of  Oxford  or 
of  Chester.  You  feel  how  fresh  and  marked  an  at 
mosphere  you  breathe,  in  a  visit  of  a  few  days'  length 
to  either  town.  But  of  course,  if  you  live  in  the 
strangest  place  for  a  long  time,  you  will  find  that  life 
there  is  very  much  what  life  is  elsewhere.  I  have 
often  thought  that  I  should  like  to  do  my  in-door 
work  in  a  room  whose  window  opened  upon  the  sea  ; 
so  close  to  the  sea  that  looking  out  you  might  have 
the  waves  lapping  on  the  rock  fifteen  feet  below  you  ; 
and  that  when  you  threw  the  window  up,  the  salt 
breeze  might  come  into  the  chamber,  a  little  feverish 
perhaps  with  several  toiling  hours.  Surely,  I  think, 
some  influence  from  the  scene  would  mingle  itself 
with  all  that  one's  mind  would  there  produce.  And 
it  would  be  curious  to  look  out,  before  going  to  bed, 
far  over  the  level  surface  in  the  moonlight :  to  see  the 
spectral  sails  passing  in  the  distance  ;  and  to  hear  the 
never-ceasing  sound,  old  as  Creation.  I  do  not  know 
that  the  reader  will  sympathize  with  rne  ;  but  I  should 
like  very  much  to  live  for  a  week  or  two  at  the  Eddy- 
stone  Light-house.  There  would  be  a  delightful  sense 
of  quiet.  There  would  be  no  worry.  There  would 
be  plenty  of  time  to  think.  It  would  be  absolutely 
certain  that  the  door-bell  would  never  ring.  And 
though  there  would  be  but  limited  space  for  exercise, 
there  would  unquestionably  be  the  freshest  and  purest 


CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES.  33 

of  air.  No  doubt  if  the  wind  rose  at  evening,  you 
might  through  the  night  feel  the  light-house  vibrate 
with  the  blow  of  the  waves  ;  but  you  could  recall  all 
you  had  read  of  the  magnificent  engineering  of  Smea- 
ton  ;  and  feel  no  more  than  the  slight  sense  of  danger 
which  adds  a  zest.  T  am  aware  that  in  a  little  while 
one  would  get  accustomed  to  the  whole  mode  of  life. 
The  flavor  of  all  things  goes  with  custom.  When 
you  go  back  to  the  sea-side,  how  salt  the  breeze  tastes, 
which  you  never  remarked  while  you  were  living 
there !  And  sometimes,  looking  back,  you  will  wish 
you  could  revive  the  freshness  and  vividness  of  first 
impressions. 

We  have  been  thinking  of  the  atmosphere  diffused 
by  books  and  by  persons  ;  let  it  be  said  that  the  thing 
about  a  book  which  affects  your  mind  and  character 
most,  is  not  its  views  or  arguments  ;  it  is  its  atmos 
phere.  And  it  is  so  also  with  persons.  It  is  not  what 
people  expressly  advise  you  that  really  sways  you  ; 
it  is  the  general  influence  that  breathes  from  all  their 
life.  A  book  may,  for  instance,  set  out  sound  religious 
views ;  but  in  such  a  hard  cold  way  that  the  book  will 
repel  from  religion.  That  is  to  say,  the  arguments 
may  push  one  way,  and  the  atmosphere  the  opposite 
way  ;  and  the  atmosphere  will  neutralize  the  argu 
ments  and  something  more.  And  you  will  find  peo 
ple,  too,  whose  advices  and  counsels  are  good ;  who 
often  counsel  their  children  or  their  friends  to  duty, 
3 


34        CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

and  to  earnestness  in  religion  :  but  who  neutralize 
and  reverse  the  bearing  of  all  these  good  counsels  by 
the  entire  tone  of  their  life.  The  words  of  some  peo 
ple  say,  Choose  the  good  part,  Ask  for  the  best  of  all 
guidance  and  influence  day  by  day ;  but  their  atmos 
phere  says,  Anything  for  money,  —  for  social  stand 
ing, —  for  spitefulness,  —  for  general  unpleasantness. 
You  will  find  various  Pharisees  nowadays  who  loudly 
exclaim,  "  God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner  ;  "  but  woe 
betide  you,  if  you  venture  to  hint  to  such  that  anything 
they  can  do  is  wrong  ! 

Let  me  say,  that  you  may  read  and  you  may  hear 
religious  instruction,  which  without  asserting  anything 
expressly  wrong,  still  deteriorates  you.  It  lowers  you  ; 
you  are  the  worse  for  it.  There  is  an  undefinable, 
but  strongly-felt  lack  of  the  Christian  spirit  about  it. 
Its  views  are  mainly  right ;  but  somehow  its  atmos 
phere  is  wrong.  I  do  not  say  this  in  any  narrow 
spirit :  it  is  not  against  one  party  of  religionists  more 
than  another  that  I  should  bring  this  charge.  Per 
haps  the  teaching  which  is  soundest  in  doctrine,  is 
sometimes  the  most  useless,  through  its  wrant  of  the 
true  Christian  life  ;  or  through  merely  giving  you  the 
metaphysics  of  Christianity,  without  any  real  bring 
ing  of  the  vital  truths  of  Christianity  home  to  the 
he^rt,  and  to  the  actual  case  of  those  to  whom  they 
are  told.  I  have  read  a  book,  —  a  polished,  scholarly 
tale,  the  leading  character  in  which  was  a  clergyman 
—  but  in  reading  the  book  you  felt  a  strong  smack 


CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES.  35 

of  heathenism.  I  do  not  mean  the  savage,  cannibal 
heathenism  which  still  exists  in  the  islands  of  the 
South  Pacific ;  but  the  polished  heathenism  which 
was  many  centuries  since  in  Greece  and  Rome.  The" 
clergyman  was  sound  in  dogma,  I  dare  say,  if  you  had 
asked  him  for  a  confession  of  his  faith  ;  but  his  Chris 
tianity  was  an  outside  garment,  while  his  whole  na 
ture  was  saturated  with  the  old  literature  and  mythol 
ogy  of  that  ancient  day.  Then  you  may  find  a  book, 
a  religious  book,  containing  nothing  on  which  you 
could  well  put  your  finger  as  wrong :  yet  you  were 
left  with  a  general  impression  of  scepticism.  That 
was  the  atmosphere.  The  views  and  arguments  are 
as  the  solid  ground  :  but  you  touch  the  solid  ground 
but  at  a  single  point ;  —  the  circumambient  ether  is 
all  around  yon,  and  within  you.  I  have  read  pages 
setting  out  somewhat  sad  and  discouraging  views ;  yet 
as  you  turned  the  pages,  you  were  aware  of  a  general 
atmosphere  of  hopefulness  and  energy.  And  I  have 
listened  to  what  might  have  made  pages,  if  it  had 
been  printed  (page.?  which  assuredly  I  should  not 
have  read),  setting  out  the  sublimest  and  most  glo 
rious  hopes  of  humanity,  in  a  way  so  dreary,  dull, 
wearisome,  and  stupid,  that  the  atmosphere  was  most 
depressing.  You  felt  as  though  you  were  environed 
by  a  damp,  thick  fog. 

It  would  be  an  endless  task  to  reckon  up  the  moral 
atmospheres  in  which  human   beings  live  ;  or  even 


36  CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

the  moral  atmospheres  which  you  yourself,  my  friend, 
have  breathed.  But  there  are  some  that  one  remem 
bers  vividly  ;  they  did  not  come  often  enough,  or  con 
tinue  long  enough,  to  lose  their  freshness.  Such  is 
the  atmosphere  which  surrounds  all  operations  relat 
ing  to  the  sale  and  purchase  of  horses.  You  remem 
ber  how,  when  you  went  to  buy  one  of  those  noble 
animals,  you  found  yourself  surrounded  by  a  new 
and  strongly-flavored  phase  of  life.  Was  there  not  a 
general  atmosphere  as  of  swindling  ?  You  were  sur 
prised  to  hear  lies,  the  grossest,  told,  even  though 
they  were  sure  to  be  instantly  detected.  You  felt 
that  your  ignorance  and  capacity  of  being  cheated 
were  being  gauged  with  great  skill.  It  is  a  singular 
thing,  indeed,  that  one  of  the  most  useful  and  beauti 
ful  of  God's  creatures  should  diffuse  around  him  a 
most  unhealthy  moral  atmosphere.  You  may  have 
remarked  that  the  noble  steed  is  not  merely  sur 
rounded  by  an  ether  filled  with  falsehoods  ;  but  that 
a  less  irritating,  though  still  remarkable,  ingredient, 
mingles  with  it,  like  ozone  —  it  is  the  element  of 
slang.  I  have  remarked  this  with  great  interest,  and 
mused  much  on  it  without  succeeding  in  satisfactorily 
accounting  for  it.  Why  is  it  that  to  say  a  horse  is  a 
good  horse  should  stamp  you  as  a  green  hand ;  but 
that  to  say  the  animal  is  no  bad  nag,  or  a  fairish 
style  of  hack,  should  convey  the  idea  that  you  know 
various  things?  And  wherefore  should  it  be,  that  a 
shallow  nature  should  be  indicated  by  your  saying 


CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES.        37 

you  were  willing  to  pay  fifty  pounds  for  the  horse, 
while  untold  depth  and  craft  shall  be  held  to  be  im 
plied  by  the  statement  that  your  tether  was  half  a 
hundred  ? 

A  very  disagreeable  atmosphere,  diffused  by  vari 
ous  persons,  is  that  of  suspicion.  Some  one  has  done 
you  a  kind  turn,  and  your  heart  warms  to  the  doer 
of  it.  But  Mr.  Snarling  comes  in  ;  and  you  tell  him, 
in  hearty  tones,  of  the  kind  turn,  and  of  your  warm 
feeling  towards  the  man  that  did  it.  Mr.  Snarling 
doubts,  hints,  insinuates,  suggests  a  deep  and  trai 
torous  design  under  that  kind  act ;  perhaps  succeeds 
in  chilling  or  souring  your  warm  feeling ;  till,  on  the 
withdrawal  of  the  unhealthy  atmosphere,  your  better 
nature  gets  the  upperhand  again.  And  when  next 
you  meet  the  kind,  open  face  of  the  friend  who  did 
you  the  kind  turn,  your  heart  smites  you  as  you  think 
what  a  wicked  suspicious  creature  you  were  while  with 
in  the  baleful  atmosphere  of  Snarling.  You  have  seen, 
I  dare  say,  very  shallow  and  empty  individuals,  who 
fancied  that  it  made  them  look  deep  and  knowing,  to 
say  that  beggars,  for  the  most  part,  live  in  great  lux 
ury,  and  have  money  in  the  bank.  That  may  be  so 
in  rare  cases  ;  but  I  KNOW  that  the  want  of  the  poor 
is  often  very  real.  It  comes,  doubtless,  in  some  meas 
ure,  from  their  own  sin  or  improvidence  ;  and  as,  of 
course,  you  and  I  never  do  wrong,  let  us  throw  a 
very  large  stone  at  the  poor  creature  who  is  starving 
to-day,  because  she  took  a  full  meal  of  bread  and  but- 


38  CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

ter  and  tea  four  days  since.  I  have  heard  a  man, 
with  great  depth  of  look,  state  that  a  certain  cripple 
known  to  me  could  walk  quite  well.  I  asked  the 
man  for  his  authority.  He  had  none,  but  vague  sus 
picion.  I  told  the  man,  with  some  acerbity  (which  I 
do  not  at  all  regret),  that  I  knew  the  poor  man  well, 
and  that  I  knew  he  was  as  crippled  as  he  seemed.  It 
looks  knowing  to  declare  of  some  poor  starved  crea 
ture  that  he  is  more  rogue  than  fool.  Whenever  you 
hear  that  said,  my  reader,  always  ask  what  is  the  pre 
cise  charge  intended  to  be  conveyed,  and  ask  the 
ground  on  which  the  charge  is  made.  In  most  cases 
you  will  get  no  answer  to  the  second  question  ;  in 
very  many  no  intelligible  answer  to  the  first.  It 
would  be  a  pleasant  world  to  live  in,  if  the  people 
who  dwell  in  it  were  such  as  they  are  represented 
by  several  persons  known  to  me.  I  remember  an 
outspoken  old  Scotch  lady,  to  whom  I  was  offering 
some  Christian  comfort  after  a  great  loss.  I  remem 
ber  how  she  said,  with  a  look  as  if  she  meant  it,  "  If 
I  did  not  believe  all  that,  I  should  take  a  knife  and 
cut  my  throat ! "  It  was  an  honest  confession  of  her 
faith,  though  made  in  unusually  energetic  terms.  And 
I  might  say  for  myself,  if  I  had  not  some  faith  in  my 
race,  it  would  be  better  to  be  off  to  the  wilderness 
at  once,  or,  like  Timon,  to  the  desolate  shore.  The 
wants  of  beggars,  even  of  the  least  deserving,  are,  for 
the  most  part,  very  real.  As  for  their  luxuries,  they 
are  generally  tea  and  buttered  toast.  Sometimes  fried 


CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES.  39 

ham  may  also  be  found.  Poor  creatures  !  These 
things  are  the  only  enjoyments  they  have  ;  and  I,  for 
one,  am  not  ready  with  my  anathema  maranatha.  I 
have  known  very  suspicious  and  uncharitable  persons 
who  were  extremely  fat ;  doubtless  they  lived  en 
tirely  on  parched  peas.  And  all  the  sufferings  of 
the  poor  are  not  shams,  paraded  to  the  end  of  ob 
taining  pence.  I  look  back  now,  over  a  good  many 
years,  to  the  time  when  I  was  a  youth  at  college.  I 
remember  coming  home  one  night,  between  eleven 
and  twelve  o'clock,  along  a  quiet  street  in  a  certain 
great  city.  I  remember  two  poor  girls  standing  in 
the  shelter  of  the  wall  of  a  house,  leaning  against  the 
wall,  from  the  drenching  rain.  Neither  noticed  me. 
I  see  yet  the  deadly  white  face  of  one,  —  the  hag 
gard,  sick  look,  as  she  crouched  by  the  wall,  and  leant 
on  the  other's  shoulder,  as  if  just  recovering  from  a 
faint.  I  hear  yet  the  anxious,  despairing  voice  with 
which  the  other  said  to  her,  "  Are  you  better  now  ?  " 
The  words  were  not  spoken  at  me,  or  spoken  for  the 
ear  of  any  passer-by.  All  this  was  on  the  dark  mid 
night  street,  amid  the  drenching  rain.  It  was  a  little 
thing;  but  it  brought  home  to  one  the  suffering  that 
is  quietly  undergone  in  thousands  of  places  over  Eu 
rope  each  day  and  night. 

Probably  you  have  known  people  who  were  placed 
in  a  sphere  where  the  atmosphere,  moral  and  physical, 
was  awfully  depressing.  They  did  their  work  poorly 
enough  ;  and  many  blamed  them  severely.  For  my- 


40  CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

self,  I  was  inclined  to  wonder  that  they  did  so  well. 
Who  could  be  a  good  preacher  in  certain  churches  of 
which  I  have  known  ?  I  think  there  are  few  men 
more  sensitive  to  the  moral  atmosphere  than  the 
preacher.  There  are  churches  in  which  there  is  a 
hearty  atmosphere  ;  others,  in  which  there  is  a  chilly 
atmosphere  ;  others,  with  a  bitter,  narrow-minded, 
Pharisaic ;  others,  with  an  atmosphere  which  com 
bines  the  pragmatic,  critical,  arid  self-sufficient,  with 
the  densely  stupid.  But  passing  from  this,  I  say  that 
most  men,  even  of  those  who  do  their  work  in  life  de 
cently  well,  have  only  energy  enough  to  do  well  if  you 
give  them  a  fair  chance.  And  many  have  not  a  fair 
chance  ;  some  have  no  chance  at  all.  There  are  hu 
man  beings  set  in  a  moral  atmosphere  in  which  moral 
energy  and  alacrity  could  no  more  exist  than  physical 
life  in  the  choke-damp  of  the  mine.  Be  thankful,  my 
friend,  if  you  are  placed  in  a  fairly  healthful  atmos 
phere.  You  are  doing  fairly  in  it ;  but  in  a  different 
one  you  might  have  pined  and  died.  You  are  leading 
a  quiet  Christian  life,  free  from  great  sin  or  shame. 
Well,  be  thankful ;  but  do  not  be  conceited  ;  above 
all,  do  not  be  uncharitable  to  those  for  whom  the  race 
and  the  warfare  have  been. too  much. 

I  have  said  that  it  is  the  more  energetic  of  the  race 
that  diffuse  a  moral  atmosphere  ;  the  ordinary  mem 
bers  of  the  race  feel  it.  The  energetic  give  the  tone ; 
the  ordinary  take  it.  There  are  minds  whose  nature 
is  to  give  out ;  and  minds  whose  nature  is  to  take  in. 


CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES.         41 

But  most  men  have  energy  enough,  if  rightly  directed, 
to  affect  the  air  somewhat ;  and  though  the  moral 
ingredient  they  yield  may  not  be  much  in  quantity,  it 
may  be  able  to  supply  just  the  precious  ozone.  Let 
us  try  to  be  like  the  sunshiny  member  of  the  family, 
who  has  the  inestimable  art  to  make  all  duty  seem 
pleasant ;  all  self-denial  and  exertion,  easy  and  desira 
ble  ;  even  disappointment  not  so  blank  and  crushing  ; 
who  is  like  a  bracing,  crisp,  frosty  atmosphere  through 
out  the  home,  without  a  suspicion  of  the  element  that 
chills  and  pinches.  You  have  known  people  within 
whose  influence  you  felt  cheerful,  amiable,  hopeful, 
equal  to  anything !  Oh,  for  that  blessed  power,  and 
for  God's  grace  to  exercise  it  rightly !  I  do  not  know 
a  more  enviable  gift  than  the  energy  ito  sway  others 
to  good  ;  to  diffuse  around  us  an  atmosphere  of  cheer 
fulness,  piety,  truthfulness,  generosity,  magnanimity. 
It  is  not  a  matter  of  great  talent ;  not  entirely  a  mat 
ter  of  great  energy  ;  but  rather  of  earnestness  and 
honesty,  —  and  of  that  quiet,  constant  energy  which 
is  like  soft  rain  gently  penetrating  the  soil.  It  is 
rather  a  grace  than  a  gift ;  and  we  all  know  where 
all  grace  is  to  be  had  freely  for  the  asking. 

You  see,  my  reader,  I  have  spoken  of  atmospheres 
and  currents  together.  For  every  moral  atmosphere 
is  of  the  nature  of  a  moral  current.  As  you  breathe 
the  atmosphere,  you  feel  that  there  is  an  active  force 
in  it ;  that  you  are  beginning  to  drift  away.  It  is  not 


42        CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

merely  a  present  sense  of  something  that  comes  over 
you  ;  but  you  know  that  it  sets  you  floating  onward  to 
something  beyond  your  present  feeling.  The  more 
frequent  tendency  of  a  moral  atmosphere  is  to  assimi 
late  your  moral  nature  to  itself.  Perhaps  all  atmos 
pheres,  if  you  live  in  them  long  enough,  tend  to  this. 
But  there  are  some  atmospheres  which,  just  at  first, 
are  so  very  disagreeable,  that  their  effect  is  repellent ; 
they  tend  to  make  you  wish  to  be  just  as  different  from 
themselves  as  you  can.  But  the  refined  person,  at  first 
revolted  by  a  rude  and  coarse  atmosphere,  will,  in  years, 
grow  subdued  to  it ;  and  the  pure  young  soul,  shocked 
and  disgusted  at  the  first  approach  of  gross  sin,  comes  at 
last  to  bear  it  and  to  exceed  it.  Yes,  the  ultimate  ten 
dency  of  all  moral  atmospheres  upon  all  ordinary  peo 
ple,  is  to  assimilate  them  to  the  element  in  which  they 
live.  Let  men  breathe  any  atmosphere  long  enough, 
and  this  will  follow  ;  save  in  the  case  of  an  excep 
tional  man  here  and  there.  It  is  a  very  bad  thing  for 
a  young  person  to  be  much  among  thoroughly  worldly 
people,  or  among  mere  money-making  people.  Let 
us  not  cry  down  money  ;  it  is  a  great  and  powerful 
thing.  You  remember,  it  was  not  money,  but  the  over 
love  of  money,  that  was  uthe  root  of  all  evil."  But 
it  is  most  unhappy  to  live  among  those  from  whose  en 
tire  ways  of  thinking  and  talking  you  get  the  general 
impression,  that  money  is  the  first  and  best  thing  ; 
and  that  the  great  end  of  life  is  to  obtain  it ;  and  that 
almost  any  means  may  be  resorted  to  for  that  end. 


CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES.  43 

All  this  is  not  said  in  so  many  words  ;  but  it  pervades 
you  unseen  ;  you  breathe  it  like  an  unwholesome 
malaria.  You  take  it  in,  not  merely  at  every  breath, 
but  at  every  pore.  And  the  result  of  years  of  this 
is,  that  the  warm-hearted,  generous  youth  grows  into 
the  sordid,  heartless  old  man  ;  and  that  the  enthu 
siastic  young  Christian  is  sometimes  debased  into  a 
very  chilly,  lifeless,  and  worldly  middle  age. 

And  now,  before  I  end,  you  must  let  me  say  this. 
And  when  I  say  it  upon  this  page  (which  never  formed 
any  part  of  a  sermon)  you  will  know  that  I  say  it  not 
because  I  think  I  must,  but  because  I  honestly  believe 
it.  There  is  a  certain  blessed  influence  which  ,can 
mingle  itself  with  every  moral  atmosphere  that  a  hu 
man  being  can  honestly  breathe ;  and  which  can  make 
every  such  atmosphere  healthful.  You  know  what  I 
mean.  It  is  the  influence  of  that  Holy  Spirit,  whose 
presence  the  Redeemer  said  was  more  valuable  and 
profitable  than  even  His  own  ;  and  who  is  promised 
without  reservation  to  all  who  heartily  ask  His  pres 
ence.  And  you  know,  too,  that  we  have  a  sure 
promise,  that  if  we  build  on  the  right  foundation,  the 
current  of  our  whole  life  will  tend  towards  what  is 
happy  and  good.  There  may  be  a  little  eddy  back 
wards  here  and  there,  and  sometimes  what  seems  a 
pause,  but  it  is  in  the  direction  of  these  things  that  the 
whole  current  sets  ;  it  is  towards  these  that  "all  things 
work  together."  I  firmly  believe  that  the  natural  ten 
dency  of  all  moral  currents,  apart  from  God's  grace,  is 


44        CONCERNING  ATMOSPHERES. 

downwards.  Apart  from  that,  we  shall  always  grow 
worse  ;  with  it,  we  shall  always  grow  better.  Believe 
me,  my  reader,  when  I  say,  that  if  all  our  life  and  all 
our  lot  be  not  hallowed  by  the  presence  in  all  of  the 
Blessed  Spirit,  we  may  be  sure  that  we  are  breathing 
a  moral  atmosphere  which  wants  just  the  precious 
ozone  that  is  needful  to  true  health  and  life.  And  if 
we  have  not,  penitently  and  humbly,  confided  ourselves 
to  our  Saviour,  we  may  know  that  we  are  drifting 
with  a  current  which  is  certainly  bearing  us  on  tow 
ards  all  that  is  evil  and  all  that  is  woful.  It  is  sad 
to  see  the  poor  little  pale  and  sickly  children  of  some 
dark,  stifling  close  in  a  large  city ;  poor  little  things 
who  never  breathe  the  free  country  air ;  who  are 
living  in  an  unwholesome  atmosphere  within  doors 
and  without,  in  which  they  are  pining,  and  growing  up 
weak  and  nerveless ;  but  it  is  more  sad  to  see  the  im 
mortal  soul  stunted,  emaciated,  and  distorted,  through 
the  unhealthy  moral  air  it  breathes.  It  must  have 
been  a  miserable  sight,  the  little  boat  with  the  man  in 
it  asleep,  drifting  smoothly  and  swiftly  along,  beyond 
human  reach,  towards  the  tremendous  cataract ;  but  it 
is  more  miserable,  if  we  saw  it  rightly,  to  see  a  human 
soul,  in  spiritual  sleep,  drifting  day  by  day  towards  the 
fearful  plunge  into  final  woe.  Let  us  pray,  my  reader, 
for  both  of  us ;  that  God  would  be  with  us  by  His 
Spirit,  and  keep  us  in  all  ways  that  we  go ;  that  in  all 
our  life  we  may  breathe  the  Atmosphere  of  His  pres 
ence  ;  and  by  the  Current  of  all  our  life  be  brought 
nearer  to  Himself! 


CHAPTER  III. 
CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS   AND  ENDS. 


VERYTIIING    in  this  world  has  a  Be 
ginning  and  an  End. 

After  writing  that  sentence,  which   (as 
N  you  see)  sets  forth  a  great  general  prin 


ciple,  I  stopped  for  some  time,  to  consider  whether  it 
holds  always  true.  As  one  grows  older,  one  grows 
always  more  cautious  as  to  general  principles.  My 
young  friend,  when  you  are  arguing  any  question  with 
an  acute  opponent,  you  should,  as  a  rule,  never  assent 
to  any  general  principle  which  he  may  state.  He 
may  ask  you,  with  an  indignant  air,  Don't  you  admit 
that  two  and  two  make  four  ?  Let  your  answer  be, 
No,  I  admit  nothing,  till  I  see  how  it  touches  the  mat 
ter  which  concerns  us  at  present.  You  do  not  know 
what  may  be  involved  in  the  admission  sought ;  or 
what  may  follow  from  it.  The  most  innocent-looking 
general  principle  may  lead  to  the  most  appalling 
consequences.  The  general  principle  which  appears 
most  unquestionably  true,  may  prove  glaringly  false  in 
some  very  ordinary  case.  You  should  request  time 


46          CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS. 

for  consideration  before  you  admit  any  axiom  in 
morals,  metaphysics,  or  politics ;  or  you  should  ask 
your  adversary  what  he  means  to  build  upon  it,  before 
you  can  say  either  yes  or  no  to  it.  Do  as  the  Scotch 
judges  do  when  a  difficult  case  has  been  argued  before 
them.  I  discover  from  the  newspapers  that  they  are 
wont  to  say,  that  they  will  take  such  a  case  to  avizan- 
dum :  which  I  suppose  (no  one  ever  told  me)  means 
that  they  must  think  twice,  or  even  oftener,  before  de 
ciding  a  matter  like  that. 

I  have  taken  the  general  principle,  already  stated, 
to  avizandum.  It  seems  all  right.  But  I  remember, 
in  thinking  of  it,  at  how  great  advantage  a  judge  is 
placed,  in  trying  to  come  to  a  sound  decision.  Very 
clever  and  well-informed  men  state  the  arguments  on 
either  side.  And  all  the  judge  has  to  do,  is  to  say 
which  arguments  seem  to  him  the  strongest.  He  has 
no  fear  that  any  have  been  overlooked.  But  a  human 
being,  weighing  a  general  principle,  must  act  as  coun 
sel  on  each  side,  as  well  as  judge.  He  must  call  up 
before  his  mind,  all  that  is  to  be  said  for  and  against 
it ;  as  well  as  say  whether  the  weightiest  reasons 
make  for  or  against.  And  he  may  quite  overlook 
some  important  reason,  on  one  side  or  other.  He 
may  quite  forget  something  so  obvious  and  familiar 
that  a  child  might  have  remembered  it.  Or  he  may 
fail  to  discern  that  some  consideration  which  mainly 
decides  his  judgment  is  open  to  a  fatal  objection, 
which  every  one  can  see  is  fatal  the  instant  it  is 


CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS   AND  ENDS.          47 

stated.  Was  it  not  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  who  had  a  pet 
cat  and  kitten  ?  And  did  not  these  animals  annoy 
him  while  busy  in  his  study,  by  frequently  expressing 
their  desire  to  be  let  out  and  in  ?  The  happy  thought 
struck  him,  that  he  might  save  himself  the  trouble  of 
often  rising  to  open  his  study-door  for  their  passage, 
by  providing  a  way  that  should  always  be  practicable 
for  their  exit  or  entrance.  And  accordingly  the  great 
man  cut  in  his  door  a  large  hole  for  the  cat  to  go  out 
and  in,  and  a  small  hole  for  the  kitten.  He  failed  to 
remember,  what  the  stupidest  bumpkin  would  have 
remembered,  that  the  large  hole  through  which  the 
cat  passed  might  be  made  use  of  by  the  kitten  too. 
And  the  illustrious  philosopher  discerned  the  error 
into  which  he  had  fallen,  and  the  fatal  objection  to  the 
principle  on  which  he  had  acted,  only  when  taught  it 
by  the  logic  of  facts.  Having  provided  the  holes  al 
ready  mentioned,  he  waited  with  pride  to  see  the  crea 
tures  pass  through  them  for  the  first  time.  And  as 
they  arose  from  the  rug  before  the  fire,  where  they 
had  been  lying,  and  evinced  a  disposition  to  roam  to 
other  scenes,  the  great  mind  stopped  in  some  sublime 
calculation  ;  the  pen  was  laid  down  ;  and  all  but  the 
greatest  man  watched  them  intently.  They  approached 
the  door,  and  discerned  the  provision  made  for  their 
comfort.  The  cat  went  through  the  door  by  the  large 
hole  provided  for  her;  and  instantly  the  kitten  fol 
lowed  her  THROUGH  THE  SAME  HOLE  !  How  the 
great  man  must  have  felt  his  error  !  There  \vas  no 


48  CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS   AND  ENDS. 

resisting  the  objection  to  the  course  he  had  pursued, 
that  was  brought  forward  by  the  act  of  the  kitten. 
And  it  appears  almost  certain  that  if  Newton,  before 
committing  himself  by  action,  had  argued  the  case  ;  if 
he  had  stated  the  arguments  in  favor  of  the  two  holes ; 
and  if  he  had  heard  the  housemaid  on  the  other  side  ; 
the  e'rror  would  have  been  averted.  But  then  New 
ton  had  not  the  advantage  which  the  Chancellor  has ; 
he  had  not  the  matter  argued  before  him.  He  argued 
the  matter  on  either  side,  for  himself ;  and  he  over 
looked  a  very  obvious  and  irrefragable  consideration. 
You  and  I,  my  reader,  have  many  a  time  done  what 
was  perfectly  analogous  to  the  doing  of  Sir  Isaac 
Newton.  We  have  formed  opinions  and  expressed 
them  ;  and  we  have  done  things,  thinking  we  were 
doing  wisely  and  right ;  just  because  we  forgot  some 
thing  so  plain  that  you  would  have  said  no  mortal 
could  forget  it,  —  something  which  showed  that  the 
opinion  was  idiotic,  and  the  doing  that  of  a  fool.  You 
know,  more  particularly,  how  men  who  have  commit 
ted  great  crimes,  such  as  murder,  seem  by  some  infat 
uation  to  have  been  able  to  discern  only  the  one  ob 
vious  reason  that  seemed  to  make  the  commission  of 
that  crime  a  thing  tending  to  their  advantage  ;  and  to 
have  been  incapable  of  looking  just  a  handbreadth 
farther  on,  so  as  to  see  the  fatal,  crushing  objection  to 
the  course  they  took  ;  —  the  absolute  ruin  and  destruc 
tion  that  must  of  necessity  follow.  And  the  opinion 
of  many  men  upon  any  subject  may  often  be  likened 


CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS   AND  ENDS.  49 

to  a  table  which  the  art  of  the  upholsterer  has  fash 
ioned  to  stand  upon  a  single  leg.  They  hold  the  opin 
ion  for  just  one  reason  :  and  that  reason  an  unsound 
one.  Give  that  reason  a  blow  with  the  fatal,  unan 
swerable  objection  ;  down  comes  the  opinion  ;  even 
as  down  would  come  the  table,  whose  single  leg  was 
knocked  away. 

I  am  well  aware  that  the  severe  critic  who  has  read 
the  lines  which  have  been  written,  may  feel  disposed 
to  accuse  the  writer  of  a  disposition  to  wander  from 
his  path.  A  great  deal  of  what  has  been  said,  is  as 
when  you  take  a  look  over  the  stile  at  a  footpath  run 
ning  away  from  the  beaten  highway  you  are  to  tra 
verse  ;  and  end  by  getting  over  the  stile,  and  walking 
a  little  way  along  the  footpath  ;  intending,  no  doubt, 
ultimately  to  return  to  the  beaten  highway,  and  to 
plod  steadily  along  it.  All  this  discussion  of  general 
principles  ought  to  have  been  despatched  in  a  line  or 
two,  analogous  to  the  glance  over  the  stile.  But  let 
the  critic  take  into  account  the  fact,  that  since  the 
writer  last  sat  down  to  write  an  essay,  he  has  written 
a  great  many  serious  pages,  which  it  cost  hard  work 
to  \vrite,  and  in  which  nothing  in  the  nature  of  an  in 
tellectual  frisk  could  be  permitted.  And  thus  it  is, 
that  with  a  great  sense  of  relief,  he  finds  himself 
writing  a  page  whereon  he  may  mildly  disport  him 
self;  casting  logical  and  other  trammels  aside;  and 
enjoying  a  little  mental  recreation.  And  now,  going 
back  from  the  path,  and  getting  over  the  stile,  we  are 


50          CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS. 

in  the  highway  again.  We  turned  out  of  the  high 
way,  you  remember,  at  the  point  where  it  was  said, 

that  EVERYTHING  IN  THIS  WORLD  HAS  A  BEGINNING 

AND  AN  END  ;  and  that,  upon  reflection,  it  seemed 
that  the  general  principle  might  be  accepted  as  true. 
No  doubt,  in  our  early  days,  we  have  heard  sermons 
which  we  thought  would  never  end ;  yet  ultimately, 
and  after  the  expiration  of  long  time,  they  did.  And 
even  those  things  within  our  recollection,  which  seem 
as  exceptions  to  the  great  principle,  are  probably  ex 
ceptions  rather  in  appearance  than  in  reality.  I  re 
member,  indeed,  an  aged  clergyman  whom  in  my 
youth  I  occasionally  heard  preach ;  who  always  began 
the  first  sentence  of  his  sermon,  but  who  never  ended 
it ;  at  least  not  till  the  close  of  the  sermon  ;  and  no 
human  being  could  know  when  that  sentence  ended, 
or  say  at  what  point  (if  any  point  in  particular)  it 
ceased  to  be.  Still  even  that  first  sentence  of  each 
discourse  of  that  good  man,  came  to  a  close  somehow. 
It  stopped,  if  it  was  not  finished,  —  because  the  sermon 
stopped.  So  you  see  that  even  that  indefinite  sentence 
can  hardly  be  regarded  as  an  exception  to  the  rule 
that  all  things  in  this  world  have  a  beginning  and  an 
end. 

And  now,  my  friend,  having  laid  down  the  broad 
principle  with  which  this  dissertation  sets  out,  let  me 
proceed  to  say  that  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  blessings 
of  this  life,  as  well  as  one  of  the  saddest  things  in 
this  life,  that  there  are  such  things  as  beginnings  and 
ends. 


CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS.  51 

We  cannot  bear  a  very  long,  uniform  look-out. 
You  may  remember  Miss  Jane  Taylor's  pleasantly- 
told  story  concerning  a  certain  clock.  The  pendulum 
of  that  clock  began  to  calculate  how  often  it  would 
have  to  swing  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  week 
and  the  month  to  come  ;  then,  looking  still  farther 
into  futurity,  it  calculated,  by  a  pretty  hard  exercise 
of  mental  arithmetic,  how  often  it  would  have  to  swing 
in  a  year.  And  it  got  so  frightened  at  the  awful  pros 
pect,  that  it  determined  at  once  to  stop.  There  was 
something  crushing  in  that  long  look-out.  It  was  kill 
ing  to  take  in  at  once  that  unvaried  way ;  on,  and  on, 
and  on.  The  pendulum  forgot  the  blessed  fact  of 
beginnings  and  ends ;  forgot  that  to  our  feeling  there 
are  beginnings  and  ends  even  in  the  duration,  the  ex 
panse,  the  employment,  which  in  fact  is  most  unvary 
ing.  It  is  an  unspeakable  blessing  that  we  can  stop, 
and  start  again,  in  everything  ;  and  that  we  can  fancy 
we  do  so  even  when  we  do  not.  The  pendulum  was 
not  afraid  of  a  hundred  beats,  or  of  a  thousand  ;  but 
the  prospect  of  millions  terrified  it.  Yet  millions  are 
just  an  aggregate  of  many  hundreds  ;  and  the  pen 
dulum  could  without  fatigue  do  the  hundred,  and  then 
set  off  again  upon  another  hundred,  and  do  that  with 
out  fatigue.  The  journey  that  crushes  us  down  when 
we  contemplate  it  as  one  long  weary  thing  can  be 
borne  when  we  divide  it  into  stages.  And  one  great 
lesson  of  practical  wisdom  is  to  train  ourselves  to 
mentally  divide  everything  into  stages  ;  in  short,  to 


52  CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS. 

cling  habitually  to  the  invaluable  doctrine  and  fact 
of  beginnings  and  ends. 

There  was  a  poor  cabman  at  Paris  who  committed 
suicide  not  long  ago.  He  left  behind  him  a  letter 
explaining  his  reasons  for  the  miserable  deed.  His 
letter  expressed  no  violent  feeling,  —  spoke  of  no  great 
blow  that  had  befallen  him.  It  said  that  he  ended 
his  life  because  he  was  "  weary  of  doing  the  same 
things  over  and  over  again  every  day."  The  poor 
man's  mind  was  doubtless  unhinged.  Yet  you  see 
what  he  did,  and  how  he  nursed  his  insanity.  He 
looked  too  far  ahead.  He  saw  all  life  as  one  expanse. 
He  forgot  that  life  is  broken  into  many  stages,  —  that 
it  is  made  up  of  beginnings  and  endings.  He  could 
not  bring  himself,  for  the  time,  to  see  it  so.  Each 
separate  day  he  might  have  stood  ;  but  a  thousand 
days  held  in  prospect  at  once  beat  him.  It  was  as 
the  bundle  of  rods  was  so  impossible  to  break,  though 
each  single  rod  might  easily  enough  be  broken.  It 
was  the  fallacy  which  tells  so  heavily  upon  most  pub 
lic  speakers  :  that  you  stand  in  great  awe  of  a  crowd 
of  a  thousand  or  two  thousand  men,  each  of  whom  in 
dividually  would  inspire  you  with  no  awe  at  all. 

Now,  my  readers,  I  know  perfectly  well  that  you 
have  all  known  a  feeling  of  weariness  and  almost  of 
despair  arise,  when  you  looked  far  forward  and  saw 
the  long  weary  way  that  seemed  to  stretch  on  and  on 
before  you  in  life.  I  believe  that  it  is  not  so  much  what 
we  are  actually  enduring  at  the  time  that  prompts  the 


CONCERNING   BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS.  53 

cry,  "  Now,  I  can  bear  this  no  longer  !  "  as  some  sud 
den,  vivid  glimpse  of  all  this,  lasting  on,  and  on,  and 
on.  There  are  few  lives  in  which  it  is  not  expedient 
to  "  take  short  views  ;  "  few  minds  that,  without  wea 
riness  and  depression,  can  take  in  at  one  view  any 
very  great  part  of  their  life  at  once.  Sometimes 
there  comes  on  us  the  poor  Frenchman's  feeling  : 
Here  is  this  same  round  over,  and  over,  and  over  ; 
the  occupations  of  each  day  are  a  circle,  and  we  are 
just  going  round  and  round  it,  like  a  horse  in  a  mill. 
To-morrow  will  be  like  to-day  ;  and  then  to-morrow, 
and  the  day  after  that ;  and  so  on,  on,  on.  The  feel 
ing  is  a  morbid  one,  and  a  wrong  one  ;  but  it  is  a 
common  one.  A  little  of  the  sea  in  a  tumbler  is  col 
orless  ;  but  a  vast  deal  of  the  sea,  seen  in  its  ocean 
bed,  is  green.  With  life  the  case  is  reversed.  In 
the  commonplace  course  of  life,  the  path  we  are  act 
ually  treading  may  look  rather  green,  —  green,  I 
mean,  like  the  cheerful  verdure  of  grass ;  but  if  you 
take  in  too  great  a  prospect,  the  whole  tract  is  apt  to 
take  the  aspect  of  a  desert  waste,  with  only  a  green 
spot  here  and  there.  You  will  not  add  to  the  cheer 
fulness  and  hopefulness  of  man  or  of  child,  by  drill 
ing  into  him  :  "  This  morning  you  will  do  such  and 
such  things ;  and  all  day  such  other  things ;  and  in 
the  evening  such  other  things ;  then  you  will  sleep. 
To-morrow  morning  you  will  rise,  and  then  the  same 
things  over  and  over ;  and  so  on,  on.  I  have  known 
a  malignant  person  who  enjoyed  the  work  of  present- 


54          CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS. 

ing  to  others  such  disheartening  views  of  life.  Let 
me,  my  reader,  counsel  the  opposite  course.  Let  us 
not  look  too  far  on.  Let  us  not  look  at  life  as  one 
unvaried  expanse  ;  although  we  may  justly  do  so. 
Let  us  discipline  our  minds  to  look  at  life  as  a  series 
of  beginnings  and  ends.  It  is  a  succession  of  stages  ; 
and  we  shall  think  of  one  stage  at  a  time.  "  Suffi 
cient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof."  Most  people 
can  bear  one  day's  evil ;  the  thing  that  breaks  men 
down  is  the  trying  to  bear  on  one  day  the  evil  of  two 
days,  twenty  days,  a  hundred  days.  We  can  bear  a 
day  of  pain,  followed  by  a  night  of  pain  ;  and  that 
again  by  a  day  of  pain,  and  thus  onward.  But  we 
can  bear  each  day  and  night  of  pain  only  by  taking 
each  by  itself.  We  can  break  each  rod,  but  not  the 
bundle.  And  the  sufferer,  in  real  great  suffering, 
turns  to  the  wall  in  blank  despair  when  he  looks  too 
far  on  ;  and  takes  in  a  uniform  dreary  expanse  of 
suffering,  unrelieved  by  the  blessed  relief  of  even  fan 
ciful  beginnings  and  ends. 

I  remember  a  poor  woman  whom  I  used  often  to 
visit  and  pray  with,  in  my  first  parish.  She  died  of 
cancer  ;  and  the  excruciating  disease  took  eight  months 
to  run  its  course,  after  having  reached  the  point  at 
which  the  pain  became  almost  intolerable.  In  all  that 
long  time,  the  poor  woman  told  me  that  she  was  never 
aware  that  she  had  slept ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
time  never  came  in  which  she  ceased  to  be  conscious 
of  agony.  Her  sufferings  formed  an  unbroken  dura- 


CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS.  55 

tion,  undivided  by  beginnings  and  ends.  She  was  a 
good  Christian  woman,  and  had  a  blessed  hope  in 
another  world.  But  I  can  never  cease  to  remember 
her  despairing  face,  as  she  seemed  to  look  onward  to 
weeks  of  agony,  always  growing  worse  and  worse,  till 
it  should  wear  her  down  to  her  grave. 

The  power  and  habit  of  taking  comprehensive  views 
is  not  in  every  case  a  desirable  thing.  It  is  well  for 
us  that  we  should  look  at  our  work  in  life  in  its  parts, 
rather  than  as  a  whole.  Of  course  you  understand 
what  I  mean.  I  am  far  from  saying  that  we  ought  not 
oftentimes  to  consider  what  is  the  drift  and  bearing  of 
all  our  life,  and  of  all  we  are  doing  in  it.  I  mean  that 
to  avoid  a  fatiguing  and  disheartening  result,  we  should, 
for  certain  purposes,  look  not  at  the  entire  chain,  but 
at  each  successive  link  of  it.  Of  course,  we  know  each 
link  will  be  succeeded  by  the  next ;  but  let  us  think 
of  them  one  at  a  time.  Let  us  be  thankful  for  Satur 
day  night,  and  let  us  enjoy  it ;  and  let  us  hold  at  arm's 
length  the  intruding  thought  of  Monday  morning, 
when  the  shoulder  must  be  put  to  the  collar  again. 
No  doubt,  in  the  work  of  life,  every  end  is  also  a  be 
ginning.  We  rest  for  a  little,  perhaps  only  in  thought 
and  feeling  ;  and  then  we  go  at  our  work  again.  But 
it  is  a  convenient  thing,  and  it  helps  to  carry  us  on  in 
our  way,  to  mark  out  a  number  of  successive  ends,  and 
thus  to  divide  our  journey  into  successive  stages.  It 
is  well  for  us  that  when  we  start,  we  cannot  see  how 
far  we  have  to  go.  We  should  give  up  all  effort  in 


56          CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS. 

despair,  if  from  the  beginning  we  held  in  view  all  the 
interminable  length  of  way,  whose  length  we  shall 
hardly  feel  when  we  are  wiled  away  along  it  gradu 
ally,  step  by  step.  It  has  always  appeared  to  me  ex 
tremely  bad  policy  in  any  preacher,  who  desires  to  keep 
up  the  interest  of  his  congregation,  to  announce  at  the 
beginning  of  the  sermon,  that  in  the  first  place  he  will 
do  so  and  so  ;  and  in  the  second  place  such  another 
thing  ;  and  in  the  third  place  something  else  ;  and 
finally  close  with  some  practical  remarks.  I  can  say 
for  myself,  that  whenever  I  hear  any  preacher  say 
anything  like  that,  an  instant  feeling  of  irksomeness 
and  weariness  possesses  me.  You  cannot  help  think 
ing  of  the  long  tiresome  way  that  is  to  be  got  over, 
before  happily  reaching  the  end.  You  check  off  each 
head  of  the  sermon  as  it  closes  ;  but  your  relief  at 
thinking  it  is  done,  is  dashed  by  the  thought  of  what 
a  deal  more  is  yet  to  come.  No  :  the  skilful  preacher 
will  not  thus  map  out  his  subject,  telling  his  hearers 
so  exactly  what  a  long  way  they  have  to  go.  He  will 
wile  them  along,  step  by  step.  He  will  never  let 
them  have  a  long  out-look.  Let  each  head  of  dis 
course  be  announced  as  it  is  arrived  at.  People  can. 
bear  one  at  a  time,  who  would  break  down  in  the 
simultaneous  prospect  of  three,  not  to  say  of  seven  or 
eight.  And  then,  when  the  sermon  is  nearly  done, 
you  may,  in  a  sentence,  give  a  connected  view  of  all 
you  have  said  ;  and  your  skill  will  be  shown  if  people 
think  to  themselves,  what  a  long  way  they  have  been 


CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS   AND  ENDS.  57 

brought  without  the  least  sense  of  weariness.  I  lately- 
heard  a  sermon,  which  was  divided  into  seven  heads. 
If  the  preacher  had  named  them  all  at  the  beginning, 
the  congregation  would  have  ceased  to  listen  ;  or 
would  have  listened  under  the  oppressive  thought  of 
what  a  vast  deal  awaited  them  before  they  would  be 
free.  But  each  head  was  announced  just  as  it  was 
arrived  at ;  the  congregation  was  wiled  along  insensi 
bly  ;  and  the  sermon  was  listened  to  with  breathless 
attention  from  the  first  sentence  to  the  last. 

Let  it  be  so  with  life,  and  the  work  of  life.  It  would 
crush  down  any  man's  resolution,  if  he  saw  in  one 
glance  the  whole  enormous  bulk  of  labor,  which  he 
will  get  through  in  a  lifetime,  without  feeling  it  so 
very  much  at  each  successive  stage.  It  is  well  to 
break  up  our  journey  into  separate  portions ;  to  take 
it  bit  by  bit ;  to  set  ourselves  a  number  of  successive 
ends  ;  even  though  we  know  that  we  are  practising  a 
sort  of  deception  on  ourselves  ;  and  that  when  the  end 
we  have  immediately  in  view  is  reached,  our  work 
will  be  just  as  far  from  being  done,  as  ever.  Your 
little  boy  has  before  him  the  mighty  task  of  his  educa 
tion.  You  do  not  tell  the  little  thing  at  once  the 
whole  extent  of  toil  that  is  included  in  that.  No  ;  you 
fix  on  a  small  part  of  the  work  that  is  to  be  done  ; 
you  show  the  little  man  that  as  his  first  end.  That,  is 
the  first  thing  to  be  done  ;  and  then  we  shall  see  what 
is  to  come  next.  And  yet  you  know,  and  the  little 
child  knows  just  as  well,  that  after  he  has  conquered 


58  CONCERNING   BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS. 

that  tremendous  alphabet,  he  must  just  begin  again 
with  something  else  ;  that  by  a  hundred  steps,  —  each 
set  out  at  first  as  an  end  to  be  attained  ;  and  each 
indeed  an  end,  but  likewise  a  beginning,  —  he  must 
mount  from  his  first  little  book  onwards  and  upwards 
into  the  fields  of  knowledge  and  learning.  Let  us,  if 
we  are  wise  men,  hold  by  the  grand  principle  of  STEP 
BY  STEP  ;  let  us  be  thankful  that  God,  knowing  that 
weariness  is  a  thing  that  must  be  felt  at  intervals  by 
the  minds  and  bodies  of  all  His  creatures,  has  ap 
pointed  that  they  shall  live  in  a  world  of  Beginnings 
and  Ends.  Yes,  we  can  stand  a  day  at  a  time  ;  but 
if  we  forget  the  law  of  beginnings  and  ends,  we  shall 
come  to  be  bearing  the  weight  of  a  hundred  days 
together.  And  that  will  crush  the  strongest. 

Many  people,  of  an  anxious  temperament,  are  like 
the  pendulum  already  mentioned.  The  pendulum 
looked  ahead  to  the  incalculable  multitude  of  ticks, 
forgetting  that  there  would  always  be  a  moment  to 
tick  in.  And  you  can  easily  see  that  many  human 
beings  plod  heavily  and  dully  through  their  work  in 
life,  because  instead  of  giving  their  mind  mainly  to 
the  present  tick,  they  are  thinking  of  the  innumerable 
ticks  that  are  coming.  You  know  quite  well  that  the 
work  of  life  is  done  by  most  animals  that  have  to 
work,  in  a  dull,  spiritless  way.  Few  go  through  their 
work  in  a  cheerful,  lively  way.  Even  inferior  ani 
mals  are  coming  to  imitate  their  rational  fellow-crea 
tures.  The  other  day,  I  was  driving  in  a  cab  alonj;  a 


CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS.  59 

certain  broad  and  ugly  highway,  which  unites  Athens 
with  the  Pirasus.  I  overtook  and  passed  various 
drays,  drawn  by  fine  large  horses.  I  carefully  re 
marked  the  expression  of  the  countenance  of  each 
successive  horse.  All  of  them  had  a  very  gloomy 
and  melancholy  look.  They  seemed  as  though  they 
were  enduring.  They  could  stand  it ;  and  that  was 
all.  And  I  thought,  here  is  an  example  of  the  way 
in  which  this  world  mainly  goes  on.  It  goes  on  ;  it 
gets  through ;  but  not  cheerfully.  You  could  know, 
even  if  you  had  no  better  means  of  knowing,  that 
there  is  something  wrong.  And  the  working  bees  of 
the  human  race  do,  for  the  most  part,  go  through  their 
work  like  the  dull,  down-looking  horse.  The  horses 
were  plump  and  sleek  ;  they  were  plainly  well  fed 
and  well  groomed ;  yet  their  expression  was  sorrow 
ful,  or  at  least  apathetic.  It  would  have  struck 
you  less,  to  have  seen  that  dull  look  on  the  face  of 
some  poor,  half-starved  screw.  And  you  know  that  it 
is  generally  the  human  beings  whose  material  advan 
tages  are  the  greatest,  who  have  the  most  unsatisfied 
and  unhappy  expression  of  countenance.  Look  at  the 
portraits  of  cabinet  ministers  and  the  like.  Few  work 
with  a  light  heart,  and  with  enjoyment  in  their  work. 
Many  forebodings,  and  many  cares,  sit  heavily  upon 
the  heart  and  brain  of  most.  Oh  for  more  practical 
belief  in  Beginnings  and  Ends  ! 

It  is  characteristic  of  those  things  which  possess  a 
Beginning  and  an  End,  that  they  also  possess  a  Mid- 


60  CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS. 

die,  of  greater  or  less  extent.  But  we  do  not  mind 
about  the  middle  nearly  so  much.  The  middle  is 
much  less  affecting  and  striking.  It  is  the  first  start, 
and  then  the  close,  that  we  mainly  feel.  You  know 
the  peculiar  interest  with  which  we  look  at  the  setting 
sun  of  summer,  in  his  last  minutes  above  the  horizon. 
Of  course  he  was  going  on  just  as  fast  through  all  the 
day  ;  but  at  mid-day,  we  did  not  know  the  value  of 
each  minute,  as  we  do  when  he  is  fast  going  down.  I 
have  been  touched  by  the  sight  of  human  life,  ebbing 
almost  visibly  away ;  and  you  could  not  but  think  of 
the  sun  in  his  last  little  space  above  the  mountains,  or 
above  the  sea.  I  remember  two  old  gentlemen,  great 
friends  ;  both  on  the  extreme  verge  of  life.  One  was 
above  ninety  ;  the  other  above  eighty.  But  their  wits 
were  sound  and  clear ;  and,  better  still,  their  hearts 
were  right.  They  confessed  that  they  were  no  more 
than  strangers  and  pilgrims  on  the  earth  ;  they  de 
clared  plainly  that  they  sought  a  country,  far  away, 
where  most  of  those  they  had  cared  for  were  waiting 
for  them.  But  the  body  was  very  nearly  worn  out; 
and  though  the  face  of  each  was  pleasant  to  look  at, 
paralysis  had  laid  its  grasp  upon  the  aged  machinery 
of  limb  and  muscle  which  had  played  so  long.  I  used, 
for  a  few  weeks,  to  go  one  evening  in  the  week  and 
sit  with  them,  and  take  tea.  They  always  had  tea  in 
large  breakfast  cups;  other  cups  would  not  have  done. 
I  remember  how  the  two  paralytic  hands  shook  about, 
as  they  tried  to  drink  their  tea.  There  they  were,  the 


CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS   AND  ENDS.          61 

two  old  friends  ;  they  had  been  friends  from  boyhood, 
and  they  had  been  over  the  world  together.  You 
could  not  have  looked,  my  friend,  but  with  eyes  some 
what  wet,  at  the  large  tea-cups,  shaking  about,  as  the 
old  men  with  difficulty  raised  them  to  their  lips.  And 
there  was  a  tiling  that  particularly  struck  me.  There 
was  a  large  old-fashioned  watch,  always  on  a  little  stand 
on  the  tea-table,  ticking  on  and  on.  You  seemed  to  feel 
it  measuring  out  the  last  minutes,  running  fast  away.  It 
always  awed  me  to  look  at  it  and  hear  it.  Only  for  a 
few  weeks  did  I  thus  visit  those  old  friends,  till  one 
died ;  and  the  other  soon  followed  him,  where  there  are 
no  palsied  hands  or  aged  hearts.  No  doubt,  through  all 
the  years  the  old-fashioned  watch  had  gone  about  in 
the  old  gentleman's  pocket,  life  had  been  ebbing  as 
really  and  as  fast  as  then.  And  the  sands  were  run 
ning  as  quickly  for  me  as  for  the  aged  pilgrims.  But 
then  with  me  it  was  the  middle ;  and  to  them  it  was 
the  end.  And  I  always  felt  it  very  solemn  and  touch 
ing,  to  look  at  the  two  old  men  on  the  confines  of  life, 
and  at  the  watch  loudly  ticking  off  their  last  hours. 
One  seemed  to  feel  time  ebbing,  —  as  you  see  the  set 
ting  sun  go  down. 

Beginnings  are  difficult.  It  is  very  hard  to  begin 
rightly  in  a  new  work  or  office  of  any  kind.  And  I 
am  thinking  not  merely  of  the  inertia  to  be  overcome 
in  taking  to  work  ;  though  that  is  a  great  fact.  In 
writing  a  sermon  or  an  essay,  the  first  page  is  much 


62  CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS. 

the  hardest.  You  know,  it  costs  a  locomotive  engine 
a  great  effort  to  start  its  train ;  once  the  train  is  off, 
the  engine  keeps  it  going  at  great  speed  with  a  tenth, 
or  less,  of  the  first  heavy  pull.  But  I  am  thinking 
now  of  the  many  foolish  things  which  you  are  sure  to 
say  and  do  in  your  ignorance,  and  in  the  novelty  of 
the  situation.  Even  a  Lord  Chancellor  has  behaved 
very  absurdly  in  his  first  experience  of  his  great  ele 
vation.  It  would  be  a  great  blessing  to  many  men  to 
be  taken  elsewhere,  and  have  a  fresh  start.  As  a 
general  rule,  a  clergyman  should  not  stay  all  his  life 
in  his  first  parish.  His  parishioners  will  never  forget 
the  foolish  things  he  did  at  his  first  coming,  in  his  in 
experienced  youth.  There,  he  cannot  get  over  these  ; 
but  elsewhere  he  would  have  the  good  of  them,  with 
out  the  ill.  He  would  have  the  experience,  dearly 
bought;  while  the  story  of  the  blunders  and  troubles 
by  which  it  was  bought  would  be  forgotten.  I  dare 
say  there  are  people,  miserable  and  useless  where  they 
are,  who,  if  they  could  only  get  away  to  a  new  place, 
and  begin  again,  would  be  all  right.  In  that  new 
place  they  would  avoid  the  errors  and  follies  by  which 
they  have  made  their  present  place  too  hot  to  hold 
them.  Give  them  a  new  start ;  give  them  another 
chance ;  and  taught  by  their  experience  of  the  scrapes 
and  unhappiness  into  which  they  got  by  their  hasty 
words,  their  ill  temper,  their  suspicion  and  impatience, 
their  domineering  spirit,  and  their  determination  in 
little  things  to  have  their  own  way  ;  you  would  find 


CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS.  63 

them  do  excellently.  Yes,  there  is  something  admi 
rable  about  a  Beginning !  There  is  something  cheer 
ing  to  the  poor  fellow  who  has  got  the  page  on  which 
he  is  writing  hopelessly  blotted  and  befouled,  when 
you  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  give  him  the  fresh  un 
sullied  expanse  to  commence  anew  !  It  is  like  wiping 
out  a  debt  that  never  can  be  paid,  and  that  keeps  the 
poor  struggling  head  under  water ;  but  wipe  it  out, 
and  oh,  with  what  new  life  will  the  relieved  man  go 
through  all  his  duty  !  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  drag  a 
lengthening  chain  ;  to  know  that,  do  what  you  may, 
the  old  blot  remains,  and  cannot  be  got  rid  of.  I  know 
various  people,  soured,  useless,  and  unhappy,  who  (I 
am  sure)  would  be  set  right  forever,  if  they  could  but 
be  taken  away  from  the  muddle  into  which  they  have 
got  themselves,  and  allowed  to  begin  again  somewhere 
else.  I  wish  I  were  the  patron  of  six  livings  in  the 
Church.  I  think  I  could  make  something  good  arid 
happy  of  six  men  who  are  turned  to  poor  account 
now.  But  alas,  that  in  many  things  there  is  no  sec 
ond  chance  !  You  take  the  wrong  turning  ;  and  you 
are  compelled  to  go  on  in  it,  long  after  you  have  found 
that  it  is  wrong.  You  have  made  your  bed,  and  you 
must  lie  on  it.  And  it  is  sad  to  think  how  early  in 
life  all  life  may  be  marred.  A  mere  boy  or  girl  may 
get  into  the  dismal  lane  which  has  no  turning ;  and 
out  of  which  they  never  can  get,  to  start  afresh  in  a 
better  track.  How  many  of  us,  my  readers,  would 
be  infinitely  better  and  happier,  if  we  could  but  begin 


64          CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS   AND  ENDS. 

An  End  is  sometimes  a  very  great  blessing.  I 
have  no  doubt,  my  readers,  that  in  your  childhood 
you  have  often  felt  this  when  a  sermon  was  brought 
to  a  close.  Perhaps  in  maturer  years  you  have  ex 
perienced  a  like  emotion  of  relief  under  the  like  cir 
cumstances.  I  can  say  deliberately  that  never  in  my 
youth  did  I  once  wish  that  such  a  discourse  should  be 
longer  than  it  was.  Yet  we  all  remember  how  we 
have  shrunk  from  Ends.  You  may  have  read  a  fairy 
tale  by  Mr.  Thackeray,  with  illustrations  by  its  au 
thor.  One  of  these  is  a  cartoon,  representing  a  boy 
eating  a  bun,  apparently  of  superior  quality ;  and 
at  the  same  time  expressing  a  sentiment  common  to 
early  youth.  He  eats  ;  and  as  he  eats,  he  speaks  as 
follows  :  "  Oh  what  fun  !  Nice  plum-bun  !  How  I 
wish  it  never  was  done  ! "  I  remember  the  mental 
state.  I  have  known  it  well.  In  my  mind  it  is 
linked  with  the  thought  of  plum-pudding,  and  of 
other  luxuries  and  dainties.  It  was  sad  to  see  the 
object  lessen,  as  it  was  enjoyed,  —  to  see  it  melt  away, 
like  a  summer  sunset !  And  about  Christmas-time, 
one  had  sometimes  a  like  feeling  as  to  the  appetite 
and  relish  for  plum-pudding  and  the  like.  Would  it 
were  unceasing  !  I  mean  the  appetite.  But  you  re 
member  how  it  flagged.  And  though  you  stimulated 
it  with  cold  water,  yet  the  fourth  supply  beat  you, 
and  had  to  be  taken  away.  And  you  remember,  too, 
how  you  shrunk  from  the  end  of  your  holiday  sea 
son,  and  wished  that  time  would  stand  still.  You 


CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS   AND  ENDS.  65 

may  have  read  the  awful  scene  in  Christopher  Mar 
lowe's  "Faustus,"  where  the  hapless  philosopher,  on  the 
verge  of  his  appointed  season,  seems  to  cling  to  each 
moment  as  it  passes  away  from  him.  And  oh,  my 
reader,  if  the  great  work  of  life  have  not  been  done 
while  the  day  lasted,  think  how  awful  it  will  be  to 
feel  that  the  end  of  the  day  of  grace  is  here  !  Think 
of  poor  Queen  Elizabeth  in  her  dying  hour,  offering 
all  the  wealth  of  her  kingdom  for  another  day  of  life ! 
We  cannot,  in  the  commonplace  days  of  ordinary 
health  and  occupation,  rightly  realize  the  tremendous 
fact ;  but  think  of  the  End  of  this  life,  to  the  man 
who  has  no  hope  beyond  it !  To  feel  that  all  in  the 
world  you  have  toiled  for  and  loved  is  going  from 
you  ;  to  feel  your  feeble  hand  losing  its  grasp  of  all ; 
to  see  the  faces  around  grow  dim  through  the  mists 
of  death  ;  to  feel  the  weary  heart  pausing,  and  the 
last  chill  creeping  upwards ;  to  feel  that  you  are 
driven  irresistibly  to  the  edge  of  the  awful  gulf,  — 
and  no  hope  beyond  !  But  remember,  reader,  it  will 
be  your  own  fault,  if  you  come  to  that. 

It  is  the  end  of  a  career  that  gives  the  character 
to  it  all.  We  feel  as  if  a  life,  however  honorable 
and  happy,  were  blighted  by  a  sorry  ending.  The 
thought  of  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena  squabbling  about 
the  thickness  of  his  camp  soup,  and  the  number  of 
clean  shirts  to  be  allowed  him,  casts  back  an  impres 
sion  of  pettiness  upon  the  man  even  in  his  mid-career. 
There  is  a  graver  consideration.  If  a  man  had  lived 
5 


66          CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS. 

many  years  in  usefulness  and  honor,  but  finally  fell 
into  grievous  sin  and  shame,  we  should  think  of  his 
life  as  on  the  whole  a  shameful  one.  But  if  a  man 
end  his  career  nobly,  if  his  last  years  are  honorable 
and  happy,  we  should  think  of  his  life  on  the  whole 
as  one  of  happiness  and  honor,  though  its  beginning 
were  ever  so  lowly  and  sad.  You  remember  how  a 
great  king  of  ancient  days  asked  a  philosopher  to 
name  some  of  the  happiest  of  the  race.  The  phi 
losopher  named  several  men,  all  of  whom  were  dead. 
The  king  asked  him  why  he  did  not  think  of  men 
still  living  ;  "  Look  at  all  my  splendor,"  he  said  to  the 
philosopher ;  "  why  do  you  not  think  of  me  ?  "  "  Ah," 
said  the  wise  man  ;  "  who  knows  what  your  life  and 
your  lot  may  be  yet  ?  I  call  no  man  happy  before 
he  dies  ! "  [Distinguished  classical  scholar,  I  am  not 
telling  the  story  for  you.]  And,  sure  enough,  that 
monarch  was  reduced  to  captivity  and  misery  ;  and 
died  a  miserable  captive :  and  so  you  would  not  say 
that  his  life  was  a  happy  or  a  prosperous  one  on  the 
whole.  But  in  the  most  important  of  all  our  con 
cerns,  rny  friend,  the  End  is  far  more  important  than 
that.  You  know  that  though  the  monarch,  vanquished 
and  uncrowned,  died  in  a  dungeon,  that  could  not  blot 
out  the  years  of  royalty  he  had  actually  lived.  He 
had  been  a  king,  once  ;  however  fallen  now.  The 
man  who  sits  by  his  lonely  fireside,  silent  and  de 
serted,  can  yet  remember  the  days  when  that  quiet 
dwelling  was  noisy  and  gladsome  with  young  voices : 


CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS.          67 

they  were  real  days,  when  his  children  were  round 
him  ;  and  it  does  him  good  yet  to  look  back  on  them, 
—  though  now  the  little  things  are  in  their  graves. 
But  the  fearful  thing  about  the  Christian  who  ends  in 
sin  and  shame,  is  this  :  He  dare  not  comfort  himself 
under  the  present  wretchedness,  by  looking  back  to 
better  days,  when  he  thought  he  was  safe.  The  fear 
ful  thing  is  that  this  present  end  of  sin  has  power  to 
blot  out  those  better  days  :  if  a  man,  however  fair  his 
profession,  end  at  last  manifestly  not  a  Christian,  this 
proves  that  he  never  was  a  Christian  at  all !  You  see 
what  tremendous  issues  depend  upon  the  Christian 
life  ending  well !  It  is  little  to  say  that  ending  ill  is 
a  sad  thing  at  the  time  :  it  is  that  ending  ill  flings 
back  a  baleful  light  on  all  the  days  that  went  before  ! 
If  the  end  be  bad,  then  there  was  something  amiss  all 
along,  however  little  suspected  it  may  have  been.  It 
is  only  when  the  end  is  well  over,  that  you  can  be 
perfectly  sure  you  are  safe.  You  remember  Mr. 
Moultrie's  beautiful  poem,  about  his  living  children 
and  his  dead  child.  The  living  children  were  good, 
were  all  he  could  wish  ;  but  God  only  knew  how 
temptation  might  prevail  against  them  as  years  went 
on  ;  but  as  for  the  dead  one,  he  was  safe.  "  It  may 
be  that  the  Tempter's  wiles  their  souls  from  bliss  may 
sever ;  But  if  our  own  poor  faith  fail  not,  he  must  be 
ours  forever ! "  Yes,  that  little  one  had  passed  the 
End  ;  no  evil  nor  peril  could  touch  him  more. 


63  CONCERNING   BEGINNINGS   AND  ENDS. 

I  dare  say  you  have  sometimes  found  that  for  a  lay 
or  two,  a  line  of  poetry  or  some  short  sentence  of 
prose  would  keep  constantly  recurring  to  your  mem 
ory.  I  find  it  so  ;  and  the  line  is  sometimes  Shak- 
speare's  ;  sometimes  Tennyson's  ;  often  it  is  from  a 
certain  Volume  (the  Best  Volume)  of  which  it  is  my 
duty  to  think  a  great  deal.  And  I  remember  how, 
not  long  since,  for  about  a  week,  the  line  that  was 
always  recurring  was  one  by  Solomon,  king  and  phi 
losopher  (and  something  more)  :  it  was  "  Better  is  the 
end  of  a  thing  than  the  beginning."  And  at  first  I 
thought  that  the  words  sounded  sad,  and  more  hea 
then-like  than  Christian.  Has  it  come  to  this,  that 
God's  Word  tells  us  concerning  the  life  God  gave  us, 
that  the  best  thing  that  can  happen  to  us  is  soonest  to 
get  rid  of  that  sad  gift ;  and  that  each  thing  that 
comes  our  way,  is  something  concerning  which  we 
may  be  glad  when  it  is  over  ?  I  thought  of  Mr. 
Kingsley,  and  wondered  if  the  sum  of  the  matter, 
after  all,  is  "  The  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to 
sleep ; "  and  of  Sophocles,  and  how  he  said  "  Not  to 
be,  is  best  of  all;  but  when  one  hath  come  to  this 
world,  then  to  return  with  quickest  step  to  whence  he 
came,  is  next."  But  then  I  saw,  gradually,  that  the 
words  are  neither  cynical  nor  hopeless ;  that  they  do 
but  remind  us  of  the  great  truth,  that  God  would  have 
our  life  here  one  of  constant  progress  from  good  to 
better,  and  so  the  End  best  of  all.  We  are  to  be 
"forgetting  those  things  which  are  behind,  and  reach- 


CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS   AND  ENDS.  69 

ing  forth  unto  those  which  are  before,"  because  the 
best  things  are  still  before  us.  If  things  in  this  world 
go  as  God  intended  they  should,  then  everything  is  a 
step  to  something  else,  something  farther :  which 
ought  to  be  an  advance  on  what  went  before  it ;  which 
ought  to  be  better  than  what  went  before  it.  And 
above  all,  the  End  of  our  life  here  (if  it  end  well),  so 
safe  and  so  happy,  is  far  better  than  its  Beginning, 
with  all  the  perils  of  the  voyage  yet  to  come. 

I  thought  of  these  things  the  other  Sunday  after 
noon,  seeing  the  Beginning  and  the  End  almost  side 
by  side.  At  that  service  I  did  not  preach  ;  and  I  was 
sitting  in  a  square  seat  in  a  certain  church,  listening 
to  a  very  good  sermon  preached  by  a  friend.  A  cer 
tain  little  boy,  just  four  years  old,  came  and  sat  beside 
me,  leaning  his  head  on  me  as  a  pillow  ;  and  soon 
after  the  beginning  of  the  sermon,  the  little  man  (very 
properly)  fell  sound  asleep.  And  (attending  to  the 
sermon  all  the  while)  I  could  not  but  look  down  at 
the  fat  rosy  little  face,  and  the  abundance  of  curly 
hair ;  the  fresh,  clear  complexion,  the  cheerful,  inno 
cent  expression  ;  and  think  how  fair  and  pleasing  a 
thing  is  early  youth,  —  how  beautiful  and  hopeful  is 
our  life's  Beginning.  And  after  service  was  over,  on 
my  way  home,  I  went  to  see  a  revered  friend,  who,  at 
the  end  of  a  long  Christian  life,  was  dying.  There 
was  the  worn,  ghastly  face,  with  its  sharp  features  ; 
the  weary,  worn-out  frame ;  the  weakened,  wandering 
mind,  so  changed  from  what  it  used  to  be.  And 


70          CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS. 

standing  by  that  good  Christian's  bed,  and  thinking  of 
the  little  child,  I  said  to  myself,  There  is  the  Begin 
ning  of  life  ;  Here  is  the  End  ;  —  what  shall  we  say  in 
the  view  of  that  sad  contrast  ?  And  I  thought,  there 
and  then,  that  "  Better  is  the  end  of  a  thing  than  the 
beginning !  "  Yes  ;  better  is  the  end  of  a  dangerous 
voyage  than  its  outset.  You  have  seen  a  ship  sailing 
away  upon  a  long,  perilous  voyage  over  the  ocean  ; 
the  day  was  fair  and  sunshiny,  and  the  ship  looked 
gay  and  trim,  with  her  white  sails  and  her  freshly- 
painted  sides.  And  you  have  seen  a  ship  coming  safe 
into  port  at  the  end  of  her  thousands  of  miles  over  the 
deep,  under  a  gloomy,  stormy  sky,  and  with  hull  and 
masts  battered  by  winds  and  waves.  And  you  have 
thought,  I  dare  say,  that  better  far  was  this  ending, 
safe  and  sure,  than  even  that  sunshiny  beginning,  with 
all  the  risks  before  it.  And  here,  in  the  worn  figure 
on  the  weary  bed,  here  is  the  safe  end  of  the  voyage 
of  life !  Oh,  what  perils  are  yet  before  the  merry  lit 
tle  child !  Who  can  say  if  that  little  one  is  to  end  in 
glory  ?  But  to  the  dying  Christian  all  these  perils 
are  over.  He  is  safe,  safe !  And  then,  remember,  this 
is  not  yet  the  end,  you  see.  It  is  NOT  the  end,  that 
weary  figure,  lying  on  that  bed  of  pain.  It  is  only 
the  last  step  before  the  end.  A  very  little,  and  how 
glorious  and  happy  that  sufferer  will  be  !  You  would 
not  wish  to  keep  him  here,  when  you  think  of  all  the 
blessedness  into  which  the  next  step  from  this  pain 
will  bear  him.  Nay  ;  but  you  may  take  up,  in  a  sub- 


CONCERNING  BEGINNINGS  AND  ENDS.  71 

limer  significance  than  that  of  deliverance  from  mere 
earthly  ill,  the  beautiful  words  of  the  greatest  poet : 

"  Vex  not  his  soul :  oh,  let  him  pass !     He  hates  him, 
That  would,  upon  the  rack  of  this  rough  world, 
Stretch  him  out  longer!  " 


CHAPTER  IY. 
GOING  ON. 


HERE  are  many  things  of  which  you 
have  a  much  more  vivid  perception  at 
some  times  than  at  others.  The  thing  is 
before  you  ;  but  sometimes  you  can  grasp 
it  firmly,  sometimes  it  eludes  you  mistily.  You  are 
walking  along  a  country  path,  just  within  hearing  of 
distant  bells.  You  hear  them  faintly  ;  but  all  of  a 
sudden,  by  some  caprice  of  the  wind,  the  sound  is 
borne  to  you  with  startling  clearness.  There  is  some 
thing  analogous  to  that  in  our  perceptions  and  feelings 
of  many  great  facts  and  truths.  Commonly,  we  per 
ceive  them  and  feel  them  faintly ;  but  sometimes  they 
are  borne  in  upon  us,  we  cannot  say  how.  Some 
times  we  get  vivid  glimpses  of  things  which  we  had 
often  talked  of,  but  which  we  had  never  truly  dis 
cerned  and  realized  before.  And  for  many  days  it 
has  been  so  with  me.  I  have  seemed  to  feel  the  lapse 
of  time  with  startling  clearness.  I  have  no  doubt,  my 
reader,  that  you  have  sometimes  done  the  like.  You 
have  seemed  to  actually  perceive  the  great  current 


GOING  ON.  73 

with  which  we  are  all  gliding  steadily  away  and 
away. 

Rapid  movement  is  a  thing  which  has  a  certain 
power  to  disguise  itself  from  the  person  who  is  in 
volved  in  it.  Every  one  knows  that  if  you  are  trav 
elling  in  an  express  train  at  sixty  miles  an  hour,  you 
do  not  feel  the  speed  nearly  so  much  as  the  man  does 
who  stands  beside  the  track  and  sees  the  great  mass 
sweep  by  like  a  hurricane.  Have  you  ever  thought  it 
would  be  curious,  if  we  could  for  a  few  minutes  be 
made  sensible  of  the  world's  motion  ?  Here  we  are, 
tearing  on  through  space  at  an  inconceivable  speed. 
"We  do  not  feel  it,  of  course ;  we  could  not  stand  it. 
I  should  like  to  feel  it  for  half  a  minute  —  not  for  more. 

But  it  is  not  that  motion  we  are  to  think  of  at  pres 
ent.  No  special  illumination  has  been  accorded  to 
me,  making  me  feel  that  fact  which  we  all  know  with 
out  feeling.  But  there  is  another  rapid  motion,  com 
mon  to  all  of  us,  as  is  the  motion  of  the  earth  which 
bears  us  all.  There  is  a  great  current  bearing  us 
along  and  all  things  about  us,  which  is  commonly  not 
much  felt.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  for  several  weeks 
I  have  been  actually  feeling  it.  I  have  been  exces 
sively  busy  ;  living  in  a  great  pressure  and  hurry  of 
occupations.  In  that  state,  my  reader,  you  feel  Sun 
day  after  Sunday  return  with  a  rapidity  which  takes 
away  your  breath  ;  and  let  me  say  that  if  you  have  to 
provide  one  sermon,  and  still  more  if  you  have  to  pro 
vide  two,  against  the  return  of  each,  you  will  in  that 


74  GOING  ON. 

fever  of  work  and  haste  come  to  look  from  one  Sun 
day  to  the  next  till  you  will  come  to  find  them  flying 
past  you  like  the  quarter-mile  posts  on  a  railway. 
You  will  find  that  you  can  hardly  believe,  walking 
into  church  on  Sunday  morning,  that  a  week  has  gone 
since  the  last  Sunday.  And  in  such  a  time  you  will 
realize  much  more  distinctly  than  you  usually  do,  that 
all  things  are  going  on,  —  drifting  away,  —  all  in  com 
pany.  These  April  days  are  taking  life  away  from 
you,  from  me,  —  from  prince  and  peasant.  There  is 
one  thing  at  least  which  all  human  beings  are  using 
up  at  exactly  the  same  rate.  We  can  all  get  out  of 
the  day  just  twenty-four  hours,  neither  more  nor  less. 
One  man  may  live  at  the  rate  of  a  hundred  pounds  a 
year,  and  another  at  the  rate  of  a  hundred  thousand  ; 
but  each  expends  his  time  at  the  rate  of  three  hun 
dred  and  sixty-five >  days  a  year.  Whatever  other 
differences  there  may  be  between  the  lots  of  human 
beings,  we  are  all  drifting  on  with  the  current  of  time, 
and  drifting  at  the  same  rate  exactly.  And  we  are 
certainly  drifting.  We  are  never  quite  the  same  in 
two  successive  weeks.  One  Sunday  is  not  like  the 
last.  Look  closely,  and  you  will  see  that  there  is  a 
difference,  —  slight  perhaps,  but  real.  Each  time  you 
sit  down  to  your  "  Saturday  Review"  you  feel  there  is 
a  difference  since  the  last  time.  Still  more  do  you  feel 
it,  as  you  read  the  returning  "  Fraser,"  coming  at  the 
longer  interval  of  a  month.  Things  never  come  back 
again  quite  the  same.  And  indeed  in  Nature  there  is 


GOING  ON.  75 

a  singular  dislike  to  uniformity.  If  to-day  be  a  fine 
day,  look  back;  it  is  almost  certain  that  this  day 
last  year  was  rainy.  If  to-day  you  are  in  very  cheer 
ful  spirits,  it  is  probable  that  on  the  corresponding  day 
in  the  year  that  is  gone  you  were  very  dull  and 
anxious.  No  doubt  human  beings  sometimes  success 
fully  resist  Nature's  love  of  variety.  Some  men  have 
an  especial  love  for  having  and  doing  things  always  in 
the  same  way.  They  walk  on  special  days  always  on 
the  same  side  of  the  street;  perhaps  they  put  their 
feet  like  Dr.  Johnson,  on  the  same  stones  in  the  pave 
ment.  They  dress  in  the  same  way  year  after  year. 
They  maintain  anniversaries,  and  try  to  bring  the  old 
party  around  the  table  once  more,  and  to  have  the  old 
time  back.  But  we  cannot  have  things  exactly  over 
again.  There  is  a  difference  in  the  feeling,  even  if 
you  are  able  precisely  to  reproduce  the  fact.  And 
indeed  the  wonder  is  that  things  are  so  much  like,  as 
they  are  to-day,  to  what  they  were  a  year  ago,  when 
we  think  of  the  innumerable  possibilities  of  change 
that  hang  over  us.  Yes,  we  are  drifting  on  and  on, 
down  to  the  great  sea.  Sit  down,  my  friend,  to 
write  your  article.  You  have  written  many.  The 
paper  is  the  same ;  the  table  on  which  you  write  is 
the  same ;  the  inkstand  is  the  same ;  and  the  pen  is 
made  by  the  same  mender  that  made  all  the  rest. 
And  it  is  possible  enough  that  when  the  article  is 
printed  at  last,  your  readers  will  say  that  it  is  just  the 
same  thing  over  again  ;  but  it  is  not.  To  your  feeling 


76  GOING  ON. 

this  day's  work  is  quite  different  from  the  work  of  all 
preceding  days.  There  is  an  undefmable  variation 
from  whatever  was  before.  And  as  weeks  and 
months  go  on,  there  come  to  be  differences  which  some 
may  think  more  real  than  any  in  the  comparatively 
fanciful  respect  of  feeling.  The  hair  is  turning  thin 
and  gray  ;  the  old  spirit  is  subdued.  There  are 
changes  in  taste,  in  judgment,  in  feeling,  in  many 
ways.  Yes,  we  are  all  Going  On. 

I  wish  to  stop.  There  is  something  awful  in  this 
perpetual  progression.  If  the  current  would  slacken 
its  speed,  at  least,  and  let  one  quietly  think  for  a  little 
while  !  Let  us  sit  down,  my  friend,  by  the  way-side. 
We  are  old  enough  now  to  look  back,  as  well  as  to 
look  round  ;  and  to  think  how  life  is  going  with  us, 
and  with  those  we  know.  We  are  now  in  the  middle 
passage  ;  perhaps  farther  on.  And  if  we  are  half  way 
in  fact,  assuredly  we  are  far  more  in  feeling.  Though 
a  man  live  to  seventy,  his  first  thirty-five  years  are  by 
far  the  longer  portion  of  his  life. 

Let  us  think  to-day,  my  reader,  of  ourselves  and  of 
our  friends ;  and  of  how  it  is  faring  with  us  as  we  go  on. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  now,  when  we  have  settled  to 
our  stride,  and  are  going  on  (in  most  cases)  very 
much  as  we  probably  shall  go  on  as  long  as  we  live,  to 
compare  what  we  are  with  what  we  promised  at  our 
entrance  on  life  to  be.  You  remember  people  who 
began  with  a  tremendous  flourish  of  trumpets, — people 
of  whom  there  was  a  vague  impression,  more  or  less 


GOING   ON.  77 

general,  that  they  were  to  do  great  things.  Some 
times  this  impression  was  confined  to  the  man  himself. 
Not  unfrequently  it  was  shared  by  his  mother  and  his 
sisters.  It  occasionally  extended  to  his  father  and  his 
brothers.  And  in  a  few  cases,  generally  in  these 
cases  not  without  some  reason,  it  prevailed  in  the 
mind  of  his  fellow-students.  And  it  may  be  said,  that 
a  belief  that  some  young  lad  is  destined  to  do  con 
siderable  things,  if  it  be  anything  like  universal  among 
his  college  companions,  must  have  some  foundation. 
A  belief  to  the  same  effect  with  regard  to  any  young 
man,  if  confined  to  two  or  three  of  his  intimate  com 
panions,  is  generally  quite  groundless ;  and  if  it  exist 
only  in  the  heart  of  his  mother  and  of  himself,  it  is 
quite  sure  to  be  absurd  and  idiotic.  We  can  all,  prob 
ably,  remember  individuals  who,  without  any  reason 
apparent  to  onlookers,  cherished  a  most  extraordinary 
high  opinion  of  themselves ;  and  one  which  was  not  at 
all  taken  down  by  frequently  being  beaten,  and  even 
distanced,  in  the  competitions  of  College  life.  Such 
individuals,  for  the  most  part,  indulged  a  very  bitter 
and  malicious  spirit  towards  students  more  able  and 
successful  than  themselves.  I  wish  I  could  believe 
that  modesty  always  goes  with  merit.  I  fear  no  rule 
can  be  laid  down.  I  have  beheld  inordinate  seff- 
conceit  in  very  clever  fellows,  as  well  as  in  very 
stupid  ones.  And  I  have  beheld  self-conceit  devel 
oped  in  a  degree  which  could  hardly  be  exceeded,  in 
individuals  who  were  neither  very  clever  nor  very 


78  GOING  ON. 

stupid,  but  remarkably  ordinary  in  every  way.  Let 
me  here  remark,  that  I  have  known  the  most  enthusi 
astic  admiration  excited  in  the  breasts  of  one  or  two 
individuals  by  a  very  commonplace  man.  I  mean 
admiration  of  his  talents.  And  I  beheld  the  spectacle 
with  great  wonder,  not  unmixed  with  indignation.  I 
can  quite  understand  man  or  woman  feeling  enthusi 
astic  admiration  for  a  great  and  wonderful  genius.  I 
can  feel  that  warm  admiration  myself.  And  I  can 
imagine  its  existing  in  youthful  minds,  even  when 
the  genius  is  dashed  with  great  failings,  or  is  of  a  very 
irregular  nature.  But  the  thing  I  wonder  at,  and 
cannot  understand,  is  enthusiastic  admiration  professed 
and  felt  for  dreary  commonplace.  I  am  not  in  the 
least  surprised  when  I  hear  a  young  person,  or  indeed 
an  old  one,  speaking  in  hyperbolical  terms  of  the 
preaching  of  Bishop  "Wilberforce.  I  have  heard  it 
myself,  and  I  know  how  brilliant  and  effective  it  is. 
But  I  really  look  with  wonder  at  the  young  woman 
who  professes  equally  enthusiastic  admiration  of  the 
sermons  of  Dr.  Log.  I  have  heard  Dr.  Log  preach. 
I  could  not  for  my  life  attend  to  his  sermon.  It  was 
horribly  tiresome.  There  was  not  in  it  a  trace  of  pith 
or  beauty.  It  approached  to  the  nature  of  twaddle. 
I  was  awe-stricken  when  I  heard  it  described  in  rap 
turous  phrases.  I  recognized  a  superior  intelligence. 
I  thought  to  myself,  reversing  Mr.  Tickell's  lines, 
"  You  hear  a  voice  I  cannot  hear ;  you  see  a  hand  I 
cannot  see."  It  is  right  to  add,  that  the  enthusiastic 


GOING  ON.  79 

appreciators  of  Dr.  Log  were  very  few  in  number, 
and  that  they  appeared  to  me  nearly  as  stupid  as  Dr. 
Log  himself. 

But  leaving  Dr.  Log  and  his  admirers,  let  me  say 
that  very  clever  fellows,  very  stupid  fellows,  and  very 
commonplace  fellows,  have  started  in  life  with  a  great 
flourish  of  trumpets.  The  vanity  of  many  lads,  leav 
ing  the  University,  is  enormous.  They  expect  to  set 
the  Thames  on  fire,  to  turn  the  world  upside  down. 
A  few  takings-down  bring  the  best  of  them  to  modesty 
and  sense.  And  the  men  for  whom  the  flourish  was 
loudest  do  sometimes,  when  all  find  their  level,  have 
to  rest  at  a  very  low  one.  Many  painful  mortifications 
and  struggles  bring  them  to  it.  Oh  !  if  talent  and 
ambition  could  always  be  in  a  man,  in  just  proportion  ! 
But  I  have  known  the  most  commonplace  of  men, 
with  ambition  that  would  have  given  enough  to  do  to 
the  abilities  of  Shakspeare.  And  we  may  perhaps 
say,  that  no  one  who  begins  with  a  great  flourish  ever 
fails  to  disappoint  himself  and  his  friends.  He  may 
do  very  well ;  he  may  do  magnificently  ;  but  he  does 
not  come  up  to  the  great  expectations  formed  of  him. 
I  was  startled  the  other  day  to  hear  a  certain  man 
named  as  a  failure,  who  has  attained  supreme  emi 
nence  in  his  own  walk  in  life,  and  that  a  conspicuous 
one.  I  said  No  ;  he  is  anything  but  a  failure  ;  he  has 
attained  extraordinary  eminence  ;  he  is  a  great  man. 
But  the  reply  was,  "  Ah,  we  expected  far  more  !  We 
thought  he  would  leave  an  impression  on  the  age,  and 


80  GOING   ON. 

he  has  certainly  not  done  that ;  while  it  seems  certain 
he  has  done  the  hest  he  is  ever  to  do."  But  look 
round,  my  friend,  and  think  how  the  world  goes  with 
those  who  set  out  with  you.  They  are  generally,  I 
suppose,  jogging  on  humbly  and  respectably.  The 
present  writer  did  not  in  his  youth  live  among  those 
from  whom  the  famous  of  the  earth  are  likely  to  be 
taken.  One  or  two  of  the  number  have  risen  to  no 
small  eminence  ;  but  the  lot  of  most  has  circumscribed 
their  ambition.  It  is  not  in  the  Senate  that  he  can 
look  to  find  many  of  the  names  of  his  old  companions. 
It  is  not  likely  that  any  will  be  buried  in  Westmin 
ster  Abbey.  The  life  of  two  or  three  may  perhaps  be 
written,  if  they  leave  behind  them  a  Mrarm  friend  who 
is  not  very  busy.  It  does  not  matter.  The  nonsense 
has  been  taken  out  of  us  by  the  work  of  life.  And 
on  the  whole,  we  are  going  creditably  on. 

It  is  worthy  of  notice,  that  things  which  at  the  be 
ginning  were  very  bad  may  be  made  good  by  a  very 
small  change  wrought  upon  them.  You  see  this  in 
human  beings,  as  they  go  on  through  life.  You  re 
member,  I  have  no  doubt,  how  various  passages  in 
the  earlier  writings  of  Mr.  Tennyson,  on  which  the 
"  Quarterly  Review  "  savagely  fixed  at  their  first  pub 
lication,  and  which  Mr.  Tennyson's  warmest  admirers 
must  admit  to  have  been  in  truth  very  weak,  affected, 
and  ridiculous,  have  by  alterations  of  wonderfully 
small  amount  been  brought  to  a  state  in  which  the 
most  fastidious  critic  could  find  no  fault  in  them. 


GOING  ON.  81 

Just  a  touch  from  the  master-hand  did  it  all.  You 
have  in  a  homelier  degree  felt  the  same  yourself,  in 
correcting  and  re-writing  your  own  crude  and  imma 
ture  compositions.  Often  a  very  small  matter  takes 
away  the  mark  of  that  Beast  whose  name  shall  not  be 
mentioned  here.  I  know  a  very  distinguished  preach 
er,  really  a  pulpit  orator,  whose  manner  at  his  outset 
was  remarkably  awkward.  No  doubt  he  has  devoted 
much  pains  to  his  manner  since  ;  though  his  art  is 
high  enough  to  conceal  any  trace  of  art.  I  heard  him 
preach  not  long  since  ;  and  his  manner  was  singularly 
graceful ;  while  yet  there  was  no  great  change  ma 
terially.  You  have  remarked  how  the  features  of  a 
girl's  face,  very  plain  at  fourteen,  have  at  twenty 
grown  remarkably  pretty.  And  yet  the  years  have 
wrought  no  very  great  change.  The  face  is  unques 
tionably  and  quite  recognizably  the  same  ;  yet  it  has 
passed  from  plainness  into  beauty.  And  so,  as  we  go 
on  in  life,  you  will  find  a  man  has  got  rid  of  some 
little  intrusive  folly  which  just  makes  the  difference 
between  his  being  very  good  and  his  being  very  bad. 
The  man  whose  tendency  to  boast,  or  to  exaggerate, 
or  to  talk  thoughtlessly  of  others,  made  him  appear  a 
fool  in  his  youth,  has  corrected  that  one  evil  tendency, 
and  lo !  he  is  quite  altered  —  he  is  all  right ;  he  is  a 
wise  and  good  man.  You  would  not  have  believed 
what  a  change  for  the  better  would  be  made  by  that 
little  thing.  You  know,  I  dare  say,  how  poor  and  bad 
are  the  first  crude  thoughts  for  your  sermon  or  your 


82  GOING   ON. 

article,  thrown  at  random  on  the  page.  Yet  when 
you  have  arranged  and  rounded  them  into  a  symmet 
rical,  and  accurate,  and  well-considered  composition, 
it  is  wonderful  how  little  change  there  is  from  the  first 
rude  sketch.  Look  at  the  waste  scraps  of  paper  be 
fore  you  throw7  them  into  the  fire,  and  you  will  find 
some  of  your  most  careful  and  best  sentences  there, 
word  for  word.  You  have  not  been  able  to  improve 
upon  the  way  in  which  you  first  dashed  them  down. 

There  is  a  sad  thing  which  we  are  all  made  to  feel, 
as  we  are  going  on.  It  is,  that  we  are  growing  out  of 
things  which  we  are  sorry  to  outgrow.  The  firmest 
conviction  that  we  are  going  on  to  what  is  better, 
cannot  suppress  some  feeling  of  regret  at  the  thought 
of  what  we  are  leaving  behind.  When  I  was  a  coun 
try  parson,  I  used  to  feel  very  sorry  to  see  a  laurel 
or  a  yew  growing  out  of  the  shape  in  which  I  remem 
bered  it ;  and  which  was  associated  with  pleasant  days. 
There  was  a  dull  pang  at  the  sight.  I  remember  well 
a  little  yew  I  planted  with  my  own  hand.  It  looks 
like  yesterday  since  I  held  its  top,  while  a  certain  man 
filled  in  the  earth,  and  put  the  sod  round  its  stem. 
For  some  time  it  appeared  doubtful  if  that  yew  would 
live  and  grow  ;  at  last  it  was  fairly  established,  and  it 
began  to  grow  vigorously  the  second  year.  For  a 
year  or  two  more,  it  was  a  neat,  shaggy  little  thing  ; 
but  then  it  began  to  put  out  tremendous  shoots,  and  to 
grow  out  of  my  acquaintance.  I  felt  I  was  losing  an 


GOING  ON.  83 

old  friend.  Many  a  time  I  had  stood  and  looked  at 
the  little  yew ;  I  knew  every  branch  of  it ;  and  always 
went  to  look  at  it  when  I  had  been  a  few  days  away. 
No  doubt  it  was  growing  better  ;  it  was  progressing 
with  a  yew's  progress  ;  I  was  getting  a  new  friend 
better  than  tin;  old  one  ;  yet  I  sighed  for  the  old  one 
that  was  gradually  leaving  me.  You  do  not  like  to 
think  that  your  little  child  must  grow  into  something 
quite  different  from  what  it  is  now,  must  die  into  the 
grown  up  man  or  woman,  must  grow  hardened  to  the 
world,  and  cease  to  be  lovable  as  now.  You  would 
like  to  keep  the  little  thing  as  it  is,  when  it  climbs 
on  your  knee,  and  lays  a  little  soft  cheek  against  your 
own.  Even  in  the  big  girl  of  seven,  that  goes  to 
school,  you  regret  the  wee  child  of  three  that  you  used 
to  run  after  on  the  little  green  before  your  door  ;  and 
in  the  dawn  of  cleverness  and  thought,  though  pleas 
ant  to  see,  still  you  feel  there  is  something  gone  which 
you  would  have  liked  to  keep.  But  it  is  an  inevitable 
law,  that  you  cannot  have  two  inconsistent  good  things 
together.  You  cannot  at  once  have  your  field  green 
as  it  is  in  spring,  and  golden  as  it  is  in  autumn.  You 
cannot  at  once  live  in  the  little  dwelling  which  was 
long  your  home,  and  which  is  surrounded  by  the  mem 
ories  of  many  years  ;  and  in  the  more  beautiful  and 
commodious  mansion  which  your  increasing  wealth  has 
been  able  to  buy.  You  cannot  at  once  be  the  mer 
chant  prince,  wealthy,  influential,  esteemed  by  all, 
though  gouty,  ageing,  and  careworn  ;  and  the  hopeful, 


84  GOING  ON. 

light-hearted  lad  that  came  in  from  the  country  to 
push  his  way,  and  on  whose  early  aspirations  and 
struggles  you  look  back  with  a  confused  feeling  as 
though  he  were  another  being.  You  cannot  at  the 
same  time  be  a  country  parson,  leisurely  and  quiet, 
living  among  green  fields  and  trees,  and  knowing  the 
concerns  of  every  soul  in  your  parish  ;  and  have  the 
privilege  and  the  stimulus  of  preaching  to  a  congrega 
tion  of  educated  folk  in  town.  Yet  you  would  look 
round  in  silence  and  regret,  when  you  look  for  the  last 
time  upon  the  scenes  amid  which  you  passed  some 
considerable  part  of  your  life  ;  even  though  you  felt 
that  the  new  place  of  your  labors  and  your  lot  were 
ever  so  much  better.  And  though  you  know  it  is 
well  that  your  children  should  grow  up  into  men  and 
women,  still  you  will  sometimes  be  sorry  that  their 
happy  childhood  must  pass  so  swiftly  and  so  com 
pletely  away  ;  that  it  must  be  so  entirely  lost  in  that 
which  is  to  come  after  it ;  that  even  in  the  healthy 
maturity  of  body  and  of  mind  there  is  so  little  that 
recalls  to  you  the  merry  little  boy  or  girl  you  used  to 
know.  Yes ;  we  may  have  got  on  to  something  that 
is  unquestionably  better  ;  but  still  we  miss  the  dear 
old  time  and  way.  It  is  as  with  the  emigrant,  who 
has  risen  to  wealth  and  position  in  the  new  world 
across  the  sea ;  but  who  often  thinks,  with  fond  regret, 
of  the  hills  of  his  native  land  ;  and  who,  through  all 
these  years,  has  never  forgotten  the  cottage  where  he 
drew  his  first  breath,  and  the  little  church-yard  where 


GOING  ON.  85 

his  father  and  mother  are  sleeping.  Yes ;  you  little 
man  with  the  very  curly  hair,  standing  at  that  sofa 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  large  Bible  with  pictures; 
stay  as  you  are,  as  long  as  you  can  !  For  I  may  live 
to  see  you  grow  into  something  far  less  pleasant  to 
see  ;  but  I  shall  never  live  to  see  you  Lord  Chancel 
lor  ;  though  that  distinguished  post  (it  is  well  known) 
is  the  natural  designation  of  a  Scotch  clergyman's 
son. 

There  is  something  rather  awful  implied  in  going 
on.  Its  possibilities  are  vast ;  you  may  yet  have 
greatly  to  modify  your  opinion  of  any  man  who  is  still 
going  on.  The  page  is  not  finished  yet ;  and  it  may 
be  terribly  blotted  before  it  is  done  with.  But  the 
man  who  is  no  longer  going  on  ;  the  man  who  has 
finished  his  page  and  handed  it  in ;  is  fixed  and 
statuesque.  There  he  is,  forever.  You  may  finally 
make  up  your  mind  about  him.  He  can  never  do 
anything  to  disappoint  you  now.  But  very  many  men 
do  live  on,  just  to  disappoint.  They  have  done  their 
best  already  ;  and  they  are  going  on  producing  work 
very  inferior  to  what  they  once  did,  and  to  what  we 
might  expect  of  them.  You  go  and  hear  a  great 
preacher ;  not  upon  a  special  occasion,  but  in  his  own 
church,  upon  a  common  Sunday.  You  have  read  his 
published  sermons,  and  thought  them  very  fine ;  some 
sentences  from  them  still  linger  on  your  ear.  Unhap 
pily,  he  did  not  stop  with  these  fine  things.  He  is 


86  GOING  ON. 

going  on  still ;  and  what  he  is  turning  off  now  is  quite 
different.  There  is  little  to  remind  you  of  what  he 
was.  Your  lofty  idea  of  that  great  and  good  man 
is  sadly  shattered.  No  doubt  this  is  not  always  so. 
There  are  men  who  go  on  through  life ;  and  go  on 
without  deterioration.  There  are  men  who  are  always 
themselves ;  always  up  to  the  mark.  But  for  the 
most  part,  going  on  implies  a  great  falling  off.  Think 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  last  novels.  Think  of  Byron's 
last  poetry.  Compare  "  The  Virgin  Widow  "  with 
"  Philip  Van  Artevelde  "  Think  of  the  latter  pro 
ductions  of  the  author  of  "  Festus. "  Think  of  the 
last  squeezings  from  the  mind  of  Dr.  Chalmers.  Think 
of  the  recent  appearances,  intellectual  and  moral,  of 
Mr.  Walter  Savage  Landor.  Think  how  roaring  Irish 
patriots  have  become  the  pensioners  of  the  Saxon, 
after  having  publicly  sworn  never  to  touch  the  alien 
coin.  Think  how  men  who  bearded  the  tyrant  in 
their  youth,  have  ended  in  contented  toadyism.  We 
are  never  perfectly  safe  in  forming  a  judgment  of  any 
man  who  is  still  going  on  ;  that  is,  of  any  living  man. 
We  shall  not  call  him  good,  any  more  than  happy,  till 
we  have  seen  the  last  of  him.  His  very  ending  may 
be  enough  to  blight  all  his  past  life.  You  cannot  as 
yet  settle  the  mark  of  a  man  who  is  still  painting  pic 
tures,  still  publishing  poems,  still  writing  books,  still 
speaking  in  parliament,  still  taking  a  prominent  part 
in  public  business.  He  may  possibly  rise  far  above 
anything  he  has  yet  done.  He  may  possibly  sink  so 


GOING  ON.  87 

far  below  it,  as  to  lower  the  general  average  of  his 
entire  life.  As  regards  fame,  the  right  thing  is  an 
end  like  Nelson's.  He  ended  at  his  best ;  and  ended 
definitively.  Even  Trafalgar  would  have  been  over 
clouded  if  the  hero  had  still  kept  going  on.  Think 
of  him  perhaps  coming  back  ;  being  made  a  Duke  ; 
evincing  great  vanity  ;  trying  to  become  a  leader 
among  the  Peers,  and  showing  his  lack  of  business 
aptitude  and  of  sound  judgment  in  politics ;  coming  to 
be  occasionally  hissed  about  the  streets  of  London  ; 
getting  involved  in  discreditable  tricks  to  gain  office. 
Now  Nelson  might  have  done  none  of  these  things. 
But  I  believe  any  one  who  reads  his  life  will  feel  that 
he  might  have  done  them  all.  And  was  it  not  far 
better  that  the  weak,  but  great  man,  the  true  hero,  the 
warm-hearted,  lovable,  brave,  honest  admiral,  should 
be  taken  away  from  the  petty  and  sordid  possibilities 
of  Going  On ;  that  it  should  be  made  sure  he 
should  never  vex  or  disappoint  us ;  that  he  should  die 
in  a  blaze  of  glory,  and  leave  a  name  for  every  Briton 
to  cherish  and  to  love  ?  There  are  living  men,  con 
cerning  whom  we  might  regret  that  they  are  still 
going  on.  They  cannot  rise  above  their  present 
estimation  ;  they  may  well  sink  below  it.  It  would 
be  a  great  thing  if  some  means  could  be  devised,  by 
which  a  man  might  stop,  without  dying.  A  man 
might  say,  after  having  done  some  difficult  and  honor 
able  work,  reaching  over  a  large  portion  of  his  life, 
"  Now,  I  stop  here.  I  take  my  stand  on  what  I  have 


88  GOING  ON. 

done ;  judge  of  me  by  that.  I  must  still  go  on 
breathing  the  air  as  before ;  but  I  fear  I  shall  let 
myself  down  ;  so  don't  inquire  about  me  any  further." 
We  all  know  that  great  and  good  men  have  some 
times,  in  the  latter  chapters  of  their  life,  done  things 
on  which  we  can  but  shut  our  eyes,  and  which  we 
can  but  strive  to  forget.  It  seems  quite  certain  that 
Solomon,  albeit  the  wisest  of  men,  became  a  weak  old 
fool  in  his  latter  days ;  nor  does  the  only  reliable 
history  say  anything  of  final  repentance  and  amend 
ment.  And  silly  or  evil  doings  early  in  life,  may  be 
effaced  from  remembrance  by  wise  and  good  doings 
afterwards  ;  while  silly  and  evil  doings  in  the  last 
stage  of  life,  appear  to  stamp  the  character  of  it  all. 

It  is  this  thought  which  sometimes  makes  the  recol 
lection  that  we  are  still  going  on,  weigh  heavily  on 
one.  There  is  no  saying  how  the  page  of  our  life 
may  be  blotted  before  it  is  finished ;  and  you  must 
let  me  say,  my  friend,  that  the  wise  man  will  stand 
in  great  fear  and  suspicion  of  himself;  and  will  very 
earnestly  apply  for  that  sacred  influence  which  alone 
can  hold  him  right  to  the  end,  where  alone  it  is  to  be 
found.  There  are  many  things  to  make  one  thought 
ful,  as  we  remember  how  we  are  going  on  ;  but  the 
great  thing  (as  regards  one's  self)  is,  after  all,  the  sight 
of  the  gloom  before  us,  into  which  we  are  advancing 
day  by  day ;  not  seeing  even  a  step  ahead.  And  to 
that  may  be  added  the  occasional  examples  which  are 
pressed  upon  us  in  the  case  of  others,  who  once 


GOING  ON.  89 

seemed  very  much  like  ourselves,  of  what  human 
beings  may  come  to  be.  And  that  which  man  has 
done,  man  may  do.  I  see  various  things  that  are 
worthy  of  note,  as  I  look  round  on  the  procession  of 
the  human  beings  I  know  and  remember,  and  think 
what  comes  as  we  go  on.  I  see  some  who  are  rather 
battered  and  travel-stained.  The  greatness  of  the 
way  is  beginning  to  tell.  I  see  some  who  look  some 
what  worn  and  jaded.  There  are  little  physical 
symptoms  of  the  wear  of  the  machine.  The  hair  of 
certain  men  is  going,  or  even  gone.  The  teeth  of 
some  are  not  complete,  as  of  yore.  On  the  whole,  I 
trust,  we  are  gaining.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any 
period  of  life  that  one  would  wish  to  liv^e  over  again  ; 
no  period,  at  least,  of  more  than  a  very  few  days. 
There  are  wrecks,  no  doubt ;  some  who  broke  down 
early,  and  have  quite  disappeared,  one  does  not  know 
where  ;  and  among  these,  more  than  one  or  two  whose 
promise  was  of  the  best. 

Thinking  of  this  one  day,  I  was  walking  along  a 
certain  street,  and  came  to  a  place  where  it  was  need 
ful  to  cross.  A  carriage  stopped  the  way,  if  that  in 
deed  can  be  called  a  carriage  which  was  no  more  than 
a  cab.  And  my  attention  was  attracted  by  the  cab- 
horse,  which  was  standing  close  by  the  pavement. 
He  was  a  sorry  creature  ;  but,  as  you  looked  at  him, 
there  was  no  mistaking  the  thoroughbred.  There  was 
the  light  head,  once  so  graceful ;  the  dilated,  sensitive 
nostrils  were  still  there,  and  the  slender  legs.  But 


90  GOING  ON. 

the  poor  legs  were  bent  and  shaky  ;  the  neck  was  cut 
into  by  the  collar ;  the  hair  was  rubbed  off  the  skin 
in  many  places  ;  and  the  sides  were  going  with  that 
peculiar  motion  which  indicates  broken  wind.  Here 
was  what  the  poor  horse  had  come  to.  At  first  doubt 
less  he  was  a  graceful,  cheerful  creature,  petted  and 
made  much  of  in  his  youth.  Probably  he  proved  not 
worth  training  for  a  race-horse  ;  and  a  thoroughbred 
without  sufficient  bone  and  muscle  is  very  useless  for 
practical  purposes  ;  though  it  may  be  remarked  that 
a  thoroughbred  with  sufficient  bone  and  muscle  is  the 
best  horse  for  every  kind  of  work  except  drawing 
coals  or  beer.  So  the  poor  thing  became  a  riding- 
hack,  and  having  fallen  a  few  times,  was  sold  for  a 
cab-horse.  And  it  was  plain  that  for  many  days  he 
had  been  poorly  fed,  and  hardly  worked;  and  that  now 
the  cab-proprietor  was  taking  all  he  could  out  of  him, 
before  giving  him  over  to  the  knacker,  to  be  made  into 
sausages.  It  is  a  popular  delusion  that  the  last  stage 
in  a  horse's  existence  is  to  go  to  the  dogs.  There  are 
some  districts  in  which  he  goes  to  the  pigs;  and  others 
in  which  he  ends  by  affording  nutriment,  in  a  dis 
guised  form,  to  human  beings.  I  am  no  alarmist, 
and  I  believe  horse-flesh  is  quite  salutary.  All  I  have 
to  add  is,  that  persons  having  an  antipathy  to  that 
article  of  food,  had  better  inquire  where  their  bacon 
was  fed,  and  had  better  keep  a  sharp  eye  upon  their 
sausages. 

This,  however,  is  a  digression  from  a  sad  reflection. 


GOING  ON.  91 

That  poor  cab-horse  suggested  various  human  beings 
whom  I  once  knew.  We  have  all  known  clever  and 
promising  youths  who  became  drunken  wrecks,  and 
who  deviated  into  various  paths  of  sin,  shame,  and 
ruin.  I  laid  down  my  pen  when  I  had  written  that 
sentence,  and  thought  of  four,  five,  six,  who  had  ended 
so,  thinking  of  them  not  without  a  tear.  Some  were 
the  very  last  you  would  have  expected  to  corne  to  this. 
There  are  indeed  men  whose  career  as  youths  is  quite 
of  a  piece  with  their  after-career  of  shame  ;  but  my 
early  friends  were  not  such  as  these.  I  can  think  of 
some,  cheerful,  amiable,  facile  in  the  hand  of  com 
panions  good  or  bad,  who  bade  fair  for  goodness  and 
happiness,  yet  who  went  astray,  and  who  were  wrecked 
very  soon.  I  knew  of  one,  once  a  man  of  high  char 
acter  and  good  standing,  who  had  to  become  as  one 
dead,  and  who  was  long  afterwards  traced,  a  sailor  in 
distant  seas.  He  had  a  beautiful  voice  ;  and  I  have 
heard  that  it  was  fine  to  hear  him  singing  on  the  deck 
by  moonlight  as  he  kept  his  watch.  Poor  wretch, 
with  what  a  heavy  heart ! 

The  change  that  passes  upon  one's  self,  as  we  go  on 
through  life,  comes  so  gradually  through  the  wear  of 
successive  days,  that  we  are  hardly  conscious  how  per 
ceptibly  we  are  getting  through  all  that  we  have  to 
get  through  here.  We  fancy,  quite  honestly,  that  we 
do  not  look  any  older  in  the  last  ten  years,  and  that 
we  are  now  just  the  same  as  we  were  ten  years  since. 


92  GOING   ON. 

We  fancy  that,  intellectually  and  morally,  we  are  bet 
ter;  and  physically,  just  the  same.  People  whose 
character  and  history  are  commonplace  at  least  fancy 
this  in  their  more  cheerful  hours.  But  sometimes  it 
comes  home  to  us  what  a  change  has  passed  on  us, 
perhaps  in  not  a  very  long  time.  You  will  feel  this 
especially  in  reading  old  letters  and  diaries  ;  the  letters 
you  wrote  and  the  diary  you  kept  long  ago.  You 
probably  thought  that  your  present  handwriting  is  ex 
actly  the  same  as  your  handwriting  of  ten  years  since ; 
but  when  you  put  the  two  side  by  side,  you  will  see 
how  different  they  are.  And  in  the  perusal  of  these 
ancient  documents,  it  will  be  borne  in  upon  you  how 
completely  changed  are  the  things  you  care  for.  The 
cares  and  interests,  the  fears  and  hopes,  of  the  old 
days,  are  mainly  gone.  You  have  arrived  at  quite 
different  estimates  of  people  and  of  things ;  and  if  you 
be  a  wiser,  you  are  doubtless  a  sadder  man.  And 
when  you  go  back  to  the  school-boy  spot,  or  to  the 
house  where  you  lived  when  you  were  ten  years  old, 
it  will  be  a  curious  thing  to  contrast  the  little  fellow 
of  that  time,  with  your  own  grave  and  sobered  self. 
And  you  will  do  so  the  more  vividly  in  the  presence 
of  some  well-remembered  object,  which  lias  hardly 
changed  at  all  in  the  years  which  have  changed  you 
FO  much.  It  is  a  commonplace  ;  but  commend  me  to 
commonplaces  for  reaching  the  common  heart ;  the 
picture  of  the  aged  man,  or  even  the  man  in  middle 
age,  standing  beside  the  tree  or  the  river  by  which  he 


GOING  ON.  93 

played  when  he  was  a  little  child.  The  hills,  the 
fields,  the  trees  around,  are  the  same;  and  there  is  he, 
so  changed  !  You  remember  Wordsworth's  beautiful 
ballad,  in  which  the  old  schoolmaster  is  lying  beside 
the  fountain,  by  which  he  was  used  to  lie  in  his  days 
of  youthful  strength ;  you  remember  the  same  old 
man,  looking  back,  from  a  bright  April  morning,  to 
another  April  morning  exactly  like  it,  but  past  for 
forty  years.  We  may  well  believe,  that  there  is  not 
a  human  being  but  knows  the  feeling.  It  is  some 
little  thing  in  our  own  history  that  we  remember  ;  but 
it  has  touched  the  electric  chain  of  association,  and 
wakened  up  the  past.  There  is  a  rude  song  current 
among  the  coal-miners  of  the  north  of  England,  in 
which  an  old  man  is  standing  by  an  old  oak-tree,  and 
speaking  to  that  unchanged  friend  of  the  change  that 
has  passed  upon  himself;  and  though  the  chorus,  re 
curring  at  the  end  of  each  verse,  is  not  so  graceful  as 
the  lines  which  Wordsworth  gives  to  Matthew,  the 
thought  is  exactly  the  same.  The  words  are,  "  Sair 
failed,  hinny,  sair  failed  now ;  sair  failed,  hinny,  sin  I 
kenned  thou/'  But  of  all  the  poems  which  contrast 
the  much-changed  man  and  the  little-changed  tree,  I 
know  of  none  more  touching  than  one  I  lately  read 
in  an  American  magazine.  It  is  called  "The  Name 
in  the  Bark."  Here  is  a  part  of  the  poem  :  — 

The  self  of  so  long  ago, 
And  the  self  I  struggle  to  know, 
I  sometimes  think  we  are  two,  —  or  are  we  shadows  of  one  ? 


94  GOING  ON. 

To-day  the  shadow  I  am, 
Comes  back  in  the  sweet  summer  calm, 
To  trace  where  the  earlier  shadow  flitted  awhile  in  the  sun. 

Once  more  in  the  dewy  morn, 

I  trod  through  the  whispering  corn: 
Cool  to  my  fevered  cheek  soft  breezy  kisses  were  blown: 

The  ribboned  and  tasselled  grass 

Leaned  over  the  flattering  glass; 
And  the  sunny  waters  trilled  the  same  low  musical  tone. 

To  the  gray  old  birch  I  came, 

Where  I  whittled  my  schoolboy  name: 
The  nimble  squirrel  once  more  ran  skippingly  over  the  rail: 

The  blackbirds  down  among 

The  alders  noisily  sung, 
And  under  the  blackberry  -trees  whistled  the  serious  quail. 

I  came,  remembering  well, 

How  my  little  shadow  fell, 
As  I  painfully  reached  and  wrote  to  leave  to  the  future  a  sign: 

There,  stooping  a  little,  I  found 

A  half-healed,  curious  wound;  — 
An  ancient  scar  in  the  bark,  but  no  initial  of  mine ! 


I  shall  not  add  the  verses  in  which  the  poet  wisely 
moralizes  on  this  instance  how  fast  the  traces  we 
leave  behind  us  pass  away.  Is  it  hecause  I  can  re 
member  how  my  little  shadow  fell,  many  years  since, 
that  the  last-quoted  verse  touches  me  as  it  does  ?  We 
cast  a  different  shadow  now,  my  friend,  from  that  lit 
tle  one  we  remember  well ;  and  it  will  not  be  very 
long  till  the  shadows  that  fell  and  the  substance  that 
cast  them  shall  have  left  here  an  equal  trace. 


GOING  ON.  95 

Yes,  my  readers,  we  are  all  changed,  as  we  are 
going  on,  from  what  we  used  to  be.  And  it  is  no 
wonder  we  are  changed.  The  wonder  is  that  we  are 
not  changed  a  great  deal  more.  How  much  hard 
work  we  have  done  ;  how  much  care,  trouble,  anx 
iety,  disappointment,  we  have  come  through  !  What 
painful  lessons  we  have  been  obliged  to  learn,  every 
one  of  us !  A  great  deal  of  the  work  we  do  is  merely 
to  serve  the  purposes  of  the  time,  and  it  leaves  no 
trace  ;  but  when  the  work  done  leaves  its  tangible 
memorial,  it  often  strikes  us  much  ;  and  we  wonder 
to  see  how  fresh  and  unwearied  the  man  looks  who 
did  it  all.  I  have  seen  the  accumulated  stock  of  ser 
mons  of  a  clergyman  of  more  than  forty  years  in  the 
Church.  It  was  awful  to  see  what  a  vast  mass  they 
were.  And  even  when  we  look  not  at  the  work  of  a 
lifetime,  but  at  the  results  of  what  was  no  more  than 
part  of  the  work  of  a  few  years,  we  do  so  with  a  feel 
ing  of  surprise  that  the  man  who  did  it  was  not  at 
the  end  of  his  work  much  changed  to  appearance 
from  what  he  was  when  he  began  it.  Some  time 
since  I  got  back  for  a  short  time  the  prize  essays  I 
wrote  while  at  college.  They  filled  a  whole  shelf, 
and  not  a  very  small  shelf.  It  was  awful  to  look  at 
them.  They  were  all  written  before  the  writer  was 
twenty-two.  They  were  great  heavy  volumes  — 
heavy  physically  ;  and  intellectually  and  a3sthetically 
still  heavier.  I  tried  to  read  one,  but  could  not,  be 
cause  it  was  so  tiresome  ;  and  I  may  therefore  fairly 


96  GOING  ON. 

conclude  that  no  one  will  ever  read  them.  Yet  let 
me  confess,  that  having  arranged  them  on  a  lower 
shelf,  I  sat  down  on  a  rocking-chair  immediately  in 
front  of  them,  and  looked  at  them  with  great  interest 
and  wonder.  In  such  a  prospect,  what  could  one  do 
but  shake  one's  head  and  sigh  ?  The  essays  were  all 
successful,  Mr.  Snarling.  Every  one  of  those  prize 
essays  got  its  prize.  It  is  not  in  mortification  that 
one  sighs,  but  vaguely  in  the  view  of  such  an  im 
mense  deal  of  hard  work  done  to  so  very  small  pur 
pose.  And  when  you  look  at  a  man  advanced  in  life, 
whose  whole  life  has  been  one  of  hard  work,  you  can 
not  but  confusedly  wonder  to  see  him  looking  as  he 
does.  To  see  Lord  Campbell  walking  about  at  Hart- 
rigge,  when  he  had  reached  the  highest  place  that  a 
British  subject  can  reach,  —  to  see  the  benignant  and 
cheerful  face  of  that  remarkable  man,  and  then  to 
think  of  the  tremendous  amount  of  mental  labor  he 
had  gone  through  in  his  long  life,  was  a  most  perplex 
ing  and  bewildering  sight.  When  you  are  shown  a 
ship  that  has  come  back  from  an  Arctic  voyage,  you 
will  generally  remark  that  the  ship  looks  like  it ;  it 
has  a  weather-beaten  and  battered  aspect,  suggestive 
of  crunching  against  icebergs  and  the  like.  But 
when  you  are  shown  a  man  whose  voyage  in  life 
has  been  a  long  and  laborious  one,  you  are  sometimes 
surprised  to  find  that  he  looks  as  fresh  and  unwearied 
as  if  he  had  done  nothing  all  his  life  but  amuse  him 
self. 


GOING  ON.  97 

I  have  already  said  that  it  is  a  great  blessing  that 
in  this  world  there  are  such  things  as  Beginnings  and 
Ends.  It  is  a  blessing  that  we  can  divide  our  way, 
as  we  go  on,  into  stages,  —  that  we  are  saved  the  wea 
rying  and  depressing  effect  of  a  very  long  uniform 
look-out.  We  begin  a  succession  of  tasks ;  we  end 
them  ;  —  and  then  we  begin  afresh.  And  even  those 
things  in  which,  in  fact,  there  are  no  beginnings  nor 
ends,  have  them  in  our  feeling.  The  unvarying  ad 
vance  of  time  is  broken  into  days  and  weeks  ;  and  we 
feel  a  most  decided  end  on  Saturday  night,  and  we 
make  a  new  start  on  Monday  morning.  It  must  be 
dreadful  for  a  man  to  work  straight  on,  Sunday  and 
all  other  days.  I  believe  it  is  impossible  that  any 
man  should  do  so  long.  The  man  who  refuses  to 
observe  a  weekly  day  of  rest  will  knock  his  head 
against  the  whole  system  of  things,  to  the  detriment 
of  his  head. 

But  even  more  valuable  than  this  obvious  result  of 
the  existence  of  Beginnings  and  Ends  is  another.  It 
is  an  unspeakable  blessing  that  a  man  who  has  got 
himself  thoroughly  into  a  mess  anywhere  or  in  any 
occupation,  should  be  able  to  get  away  somewhere  else 
and  begin  again.  If  Mr.  Snarling,  who  has  quarrelled 
with  all  his  parishioners  in  his  present  charge,  were 
removed  to  another  a  hundred  miles  off,  I  think  he 
would  take  great  pains  to  avoid  those  acts  of  folly  and . 
ill-temper  which  have  made  him  so  unhappy  where 
he  is.  And  let  me  say  in  addition,  that  most  of  us,  as 
7 


98  GOING  ON. 

we  go  on,  are  always  in  our  hearts  admitting  the  im 
perfection  and  unsatisf'actoriness  of  our  past  life.  We 
are  every  now  and  then,  in  thought  and  feeling,  be 
ginning  again.  Men  are  every  now  and  then  cutting 
off  the  past ;  and  acknowledging  that  they  must  start, 
or  (more  commonly)  that  a  little  while  back  they  did 
start,  anew.  You  occasionally  avow  to  yourself,  my 
reader,  though  not  to  the  world,  that  you  were  a  block 
head  even  two  or  three  years  ago.  You  occasionally 
say  to  yourself  that  your  real  life  begins  from  this  day 
three  years.  From  that  date  you  think  you  have 
been  a  great  deal  wiser  and  better.  That  course  of 
conduct  five  years  ago  ;  those  opinions  you  held  then, 
that  poem,  essay,  or  book  you  wrote  then  ;  you  are 
willing  to  give  up.  You  have  not  a  word  to  say  for 
them.  But  that  was  in  a  former  stage  —  in  a  differ 
ent  life.  You  have  begun  again  since  that ;  you  have 
cut  connection  with  it.  You  say  to  yourself,  "  It  may 
be  thirty  years  since  I  came  into  the  world  ;  but  my 
real  life  —  the  part  of  my  life  I  am  willing  to  avow 
and  to  answer  for  —  began  on  the  1st  of  January, 
1860.  I  cut  off  all  that  preceded.  I  began  again 
then ;  and  as  for  what  I  have  said  and  done  since 
then,  I  am  ready  (as  Scotch  folk  say)  to  stand  on  the 
head  of  it.  It  is  only  in  a  limited  sense  that  I  admit 
my  identity  with  the  individual  who  before  that  date 
bore  my  name  and  wore  my  aspect.  I  disavow  the 
individual.  I  condemn  him  as  severely  as  you  can 
do."  Tell  me,  my  reader,  have  you  not  many  a  time 


GOING  ON.  99 

done  that  ?  Have  you  not  given  up  one  leaf  as  hope 
lessly  blotted,  and  tried  to  turn  over  a  new  one,  —  cut 
off  (in  short)  the  preceding  days  of  life  and  resolved 
to  begin  again  ?  Do  so,  my  friend.  You  may  make 
something  of  the  new  leaf,  but  you  will  never  make 
anything  of  the  old  one.  And  whenever  you  find  any 
human  being  anxious  to  begin  again,  always  let  him 
do  it,  always  help  him  to  do  it.  Don't  do  as  some 
malicious  wretches  do,  try  to  make  it  as  difficult  and 
humiliating  as  possible  for  him  to  turn  over  the  new 
leaf.  Don't  try  to  compel  him  to  a  formal  declara 
tion  in  words  that  he  sees  his  former  life  was  wrong, 
and  wants  to  break  away  from  it ;  it  was  bitter  enough 
for  him  to  make  that  avowal  to  himself.  You  will 
find  malicious  animals  who,  if  man  or  child  has  done 
wrong,  and  is  sorry  for  it,  and  wishes  to  turn  into  a 
better  way,  will  do  all  they  can  to  prevent  the  poor 
creature  from  quietly  turning  away  from  the  blurred 
page  and  beginning  the  clean  one.  If  there  be  joy  in 
heaven  over  the  repenting  sinner,  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  there  is  vicious  spite  over  the  repenting  sinner 
in  certain  hearts  upon  earth.  Let  us ,  not  seek  to 
make  repentance  harder  than  it  is  by  its  nature. 
Unhappily  there  are  cases  in  which  neither  in  fact  nor 
in  feeling  is  it  possible  to  begin  again,  —  at  least  upon 
an  unsullied  page.  There  are  many  people  who 
never  have  a  second  chance.  They  must  go  deeper 
and  deeper ;  they  took  the  wrong  turning,  and  they  can 
never  go  back.  Such  is  generally  the  result  of  crime. 


100  GOING  ON. 

There  is  one  sex,  at  least,  with  which  the  one  wrong 
step  is  irretraceable.  And  even  with  the  ruder  half 
of  mankind,  there  are  some  deeds  which,  being  done, 
shut  you  in  like  the  spring-lock  in  poor  Ginevra's  oak- 
chest.  There  is  no  repassing ;  and  often  the  irrever 
sible  turning  into  the  wrong  track  was  not  the  result 
of  anything  like  crime ;  often  the  cause  was  no  more 
than  ill-luck,  or  some  foolish  word  or  doing.  What 
disproportionate  punishment  often  follows  on  little  acts 
of  haste  or  folly !  In  the  order  of  Providence  folly 
is  often  punished  much  more  severely  than  sin.  A 
young  fellow,  foolishly  thinking  to  gain  the  favor  of 
a  sporting  patron  by  exhibiting  an  extraordinary 
knowledge  of  the  turf  and  the  chase,  cuts  himself  off 
from  the  living  on  which  his  heart  was  set.  A 
flippant  word,  hardly  spoken  till  it  was  repented, 
has  prejudicially  affected  a  man's  whole  after-career. 
Various  men,  in  pique  and  haste,  have  made  mar 
riages  which  blighted  all  their  life,  and  which  brought 
an  actual  sorer  punishment  than  that  with  which  the 
law  visits  aggravated  burglary  or  manslaughter.  It 
is  well  in  most  cases  to  keep  a  way  of  retreat.  It  is 
well  that  before  entering  in  you  should  see  if  you  can 
get  out,  should  it  prove  desirable.  You  must  be  veiy 
confident  or  very  desperate  if  you  cut  off  the  bridge 
behind  you,  when  in  front  there  is  but  to  do  or  to  die. 
No  doubt  a  habit  of  keeping  the  retreat  open  is  fataJ 
to  decision  of  action  and  character.  There  is  good, 
in  one  view,  in  feeling  that  we  have  crossed  the  Rubi- 


GOING  ON.  101 

con  and  are  in  for  it ;  then  we  shall  hold  stoutly  on  ; 
otherwise,  we  may  be  advancing  with  only  half  a 
heart.  And  there  are  important  cases  in  which  the 
difference  between  half  a  hearty  an$.  iau.  ^rhole  orye 
makes  just  the  difference  between  "signal1  defeat  and 
splendid  victory. 


It  is  to  be  admitted,  my  friends,  that  as  we  go  on, 
the  nonsense  is  being  taken  out  of  us.  You  have  seen 
a  horse  start  upon  its  journey  in  a  very  frisky  con 
dition,  kicking  about  and  prancing  ;  but  after  a  few 
miles  it  settles  into  doing  its  work  steadily.  That  is 
the  image  which  to  my  mind  represents  our  career, 
going  on.  The  romance  has  mainly  departed.  We 
look  for  homely  things,  and  are  content  with  them. 
Once,  too,  we  expected  to  do  great  achievements,  but 
not  now.  We  know,  generally,  our  humble  mark. 
Indeed,  the  question  as  to  the  earning  of  bread  and 
butter  has  utterly  crowded  out  of  our  hearts  the  ques 
tion  as  to  the  attainment  of  fame.  We  would  not 
give  one  pound  six  and  eight  pence  for  wide  renown. 
We  would  not  give  the  eight  pence  for  posthumous 
celebrity.  We  know  our  humble  mark,  I  have  said. 
I  mean  intellectually.  And  it  is  a  great  comfort  to 
know  it.  It  saves  us  much  fever  of  competition,  of 
suspense,  of  disappointment.  We  cannot  possibly  be 
beaten  in  the  race  of  ambition;  we  cannot  even  injure 
our  lungs  or  our  heart  in  the  race  of  ambition  ;  be 
cause  we  shall  not  run  it  at  all.  A  wise  man  may  bo 


102  GOING  ON. 

very  glad,  and  very  thankful,  that  he  does  not  think 
himself  a  great  genius,  and  that  he  does  not  think  what 
he  can  do  very  splendid.  For  if  a  man  thought  him 
self  a  great  gemtis,'  he  would  be  bitterly  mortified  that 
he  was  riot  recognized  as  such.  And  if  a  man  thought 
:«lis  B"5rraons  or  his  books  very  fine,  he  would  be  mor 
tified  that  his  church  was  not  crammed  to  suffocation, 
instead  of  being  quite  pleased  when  it  is  respectably 
filled  ;  and  he  would  be  disappointed  that  his  books 
do  not  sell  by  scores  of  thousands  of  copies,  instead 
of  being  joyful  that  about  half  the  first  edition  sells, 
leaving  his  publishers  or  himself  only  a  little  out  of 
pocket,  besides  all  their  time  and  trouble.  I  know  a 
man  of  highly  respectable  talents,  who  once  published 
a  theological  book.  Nobody  ever  bought  a  copy  ex 
cept  himself.  But  he  bought  a  good  many,  which  he 
gave  to  his  friends.  And  then  he  was  extremely 
pleased  that  so  many  copies  were  sold.  Was  he  not 
a  wise  and  modest  man  ? 

Among  other  follies,  I  think  that  in  going  on,  men, 
if  they  have  any  sense  at  all,  get  rid  of  Affectation. 
Few  middle-aged  men,  unless  they  be  by  nature  in 
curably  silly  and  conceited,  try  to  walk  along  the 
street  in  a  dignified  and  effective  way.  They  wish  to 
get  quickly  and  quietly  along  ;  and  they  have  utterly 
discarded  the  idea  that  any  passer-by  thinks  it  worth 
while  to  look  at  them.  Generally  speaking,  they  sign 
their  names  in  a  natural  handwriting.  They  do  not, 
as  a  rule,  look  very  cheerful.  They  seem,  when 


GOING  ON.  103 

silent,  to  fall  into  calculations,  the  result  of  which  is 
not  satisfactory.  The  great  tamer  of  men,  is  doubt 
less,  the  want  of  money.  That  is  the  thing  that  brings 
people  down  from  their  airy  flights1  and  romantic  im 
aginations  ;  especially  when  there  are  some  depend 
ent  on  them.  You  may  dismiss  the  very  rich,  who 
never  need  think  and  scheme  about  money,  and  how 
it  is  to  be  got,  and  how  far  it  can  be  made  to  go,  as  an 
inappreciable  fraction  of  the  human  race.  Care  sits 
heavy  upon  the  great  majority  of  those  who  are  going 
on.  You  know  the  anxious  look,  and  the  inelastic 
step,  of  most  middle-aged  people  who  have  children. 
All  these  things  are  the  result  of  the  want  of  money. 
Probably  the  want  of  money  serves  great  ends  in  the 
economy  of  things.  Probably  it  is  a  needful  and  es 
sential  spur  to  work ;  and  a  useful  teacher  of  modesty, 
humility,  moderation.  No  man  will  be  blown  up  with 
a  sense  of  his  own  consequence,  or  walk  about  fancy 
ing  that  he  is  being  pointed  out  with  the  finger  as  the 
illustrious  Smith,  when  (like  poor  Leigh  Hunt)  he 
fears  lest  the  baker  should  refuse  to  send  him  bread, 
or  that  the  washerwoman  should  impound  his  shirts. 
It  is  a  lamentable  story  that  is  set  out  in  the  latter 
portions  of  the  "  Correspondence  "  of  that  amiable  but 
unwise  man.  And  human  vanity  needs  a  strong 
pressure  to  keep  it  within  moderate  limits.  Even  the 
wise  man,  with  all  his  unsparing  efforts  to  keep  self- 
conceit  down,  has  latent  in  him  more  of  it  than  he 
would  like  to  confess.  I  lately  heard  of  an  outburst 


104  GOING  ON. 

of  the  vanity  latent  in  a  decent  farmer  of  moderate 
means.  One  market  day  he  got  somewhat  drunk, 
unhappily.  And  walking  home,  on  the  country  road, 
he  fell  into  a  ditch,  wherein  he  remained.  Some  of 
his  friends  found  him  there,  and  proceeded  to  rescue 
him.  On  approaching  him,  they  found  he  was  pray 
ing.  For  though  drunk  that  day,  he  was  really  a 
worthy  man :  it  was  quite  an  exceptional  case ;  I 
suppose  he  never  got  drunk  again.  They  caught 
a  sentence  of  his  prayer.  It  was,  "  Lord,  as  Thou 
hast  made  me  great  so  do  Thou  make  me  good  I " 
His  friends  had  no  idea  of  the  high  estimation  in 
which  the  man  held  himself.  He  was,  in  the  matter 
of  greatness,  exactly  on  the  same  footing  with  the 
other  people  round  him.  But  he  did  not  think  so. 
In  his  secret  soul,  he  fancied  himself  a  very  superior 
man.  And  when  his  self-restraint  was  removed  by 
whiskey,  the  fancy  came  out. 

But  he  must  have  been  at  least  a  well-to-do  man, 
who  had  this  idea  of  his  own  importance.  Many  men 
are  burdened  far  too  heavily  for  that.  Very  many 
men  in  this  world  are  bearing  just  as  much  as  they 
can.  A  little  more  would  break  them  down,  as  the 
last  pound  breaks  the  camel's  back.  When  a  man  is 
loaded  with  as  much  work,  or  suffering,  or  disappoint 
ment,  as  he  can  bear,  a  very  trifling  addition  will 
make  his  burden  greater  than  he  can  bear.  I  remem 
ber  how  a  friend  told  me  of  a  time  when  he  was  pass 
ing  through  the  greatest  trouble  of  his  life.  He  had 


GOING  ON.  105 

met  a  very  hea\7y  trial,  but  was  bearing  up  wonder 
fully.  One  day,  only  a  day  or  two  after  the  stroke 
had  fallen,  he  was  walking  along  a  lonely  and  rocky 
path,  when  he  tripped  and  fell  down,  giving  his  knee 
a  severe  stunning  blow  against  a  rock.  He  had  been 
able  to  bear  up  before,  though  his  heart  was  full.  But 
that  was  the  drop  too  much  ;  and  he  broke  down  and 
cried  like  a  child,  though  before  that  he  had  not  shed 
a  tear. 

There  are  various  conclusions  at  which  men  arrive 
as  they  go  on,  which  at  an  earlier  part  of  their  journey 
they  would  have  rejected  with  indignation.  One  thing 
you  will  learn,  my  reader,  as  you  advance,  is,  what  you 
may  expect.  I  mean,  in  particular,  how  much  you 
may  expect  from  the  kindness  of  your  friends;  how 
much  they  are  likely  to  do  for  you ;  how  much  they 
are  likely  to  put  themselves  about  to  serve  you.  I  do 
not  say  it  in  the  way  of  finding  fault ;  but  the  ordinary 
men  of  this  world  are  so  completely  occupied  in  look 
ing  to  their  own  concerns,  that  they  have  no  time  or 
strength  to  spare  for  those  of  others.  And,  accord 
ingly,  if  you  stick  in  the  mud,  you  had  much  better, 
in  all  ordinary  cases,  try  to  get  out  yourself.  Nobody 
is  likely  to  help  you  particularly.  Good  Samaritans, 
in  modern  society,  are  rare  ;  priests  and  levites  are 
frequent.  I  lately  came  to  know  a  man  who  had 
faithfully  and  effectually  served  a  certain  cause  for 
many  years.  He  came  at  last  to  a  point  in  his  life  at 


106  GOING  ON. 

which  those  interested  in  the  cause  he  had  served 
might  have  greatly  helped  him.  He  made  sure  they 
would.  But  they  simply  did  nothing.  Nobody  moved 
a  finger  to  aid  that  meritorious  man.  He  was  morti 
fied  ;  but  after  waiting  a  little,  he  proceeded  to  help 
himself,  which  he  did  effectually.  I  do  not  think  he 
will  trust  to  his  friends  any  more.  The  truth  is,  that 
beyond  the  closest  circle  of  relationship,  men  in  gen 
eral  care  very  little  indeed  for  each  other.  I  know 
men,  indeed,  —  and  I  say  it  with  pride  and  thankful 
ness,  —  with  whom  the  case  is  very  different :  I  re 
member  one  who  loved  his  friends  as  himself,  and  who 
stood  up  for  them  everywhere  with  a  noble  devotion. 
I  think  a  good  many  of  them  caught  from  him  the  im 
pulse  that  would  have  made  them  do  as  much  for  him  ; 
but  he  was  one  of  the  truest  friends  and  the  noblest- 
hearted  men  on  this  earth.  Many  months  are  gone 
since  he  was  laid  in  his  grave  ;  but  how  many  of  those 
who  will  read  this  page  cherish  more  warmly  than 
ever  the  memory  of  John  Parker!  "If  I  forget 
thee,"  my  beloved  friend  —  you  remember  David's 
solemn  words.  But  compared  with  the  chance 
acquaintances  whom  every  one  knows,  he  was  as  a 
Man  among  Gorillas.  And  I  recur  to  my  principle, 
that  beyond  closest  ties  of  blood,  men  in  general  care 
very  little  for  one  another.  You  have  known,  I  dare 
say,  an  old  gentleman,  dying  in  great  suffering  through 
many  weeks ;  but  his  old  club  friends  did  not  care  at 
all ;  at  most,  very  little.  His  suffering  and  death 


GOING  ON.  107 

caused  them  not  the  slightest  appreciable  concern. 
You  may  expect  certain  of  your  friends  to  be  ex 
tremely  lively  and  amusing  at  a  dinner-party,  on  the 
day  of  your  funeral.  I  remember,  a  good  many  years 
ago,  feeling  very  indignant  at  learning  about  a  gay  en 
tertainment,  where  was  much  music  and  dancing,  at 
tended  by  a  number  of  young  people,  on  the  evening 
of  the  day  on  which  a  fair  young  companion  of  them 
all  was  laid  in  her  last  resting-place.  I  am  so  many 
years  older;  yet  I  confess  I  have  not  succeeded  in 
schooling  myself  to  feel  none  of  the  indignation  I  then 
felt ;  though  I  have  thoroughly  got  rid  of  the  slightest 
tendency  to  the  surprise  I  felt  in  that  inexperienced 
time.  For,  since  then,  I  have  seen  a  young  fellow  of 
six-and-twenty  engaged  in  a  lively  flirtation  with  two 
girls  who  were  in  a  railway  carriage  while  he  was 
standing  on  the  platform,  just  the  day  after  his  moth 
er's  funeral.  I  have  beheld  two  young  ladies  decked 
to  go  out  to  a  ball.  Their  dresses  happily  combined  a 
most  becoming  aspect  with  the  expression  of  a  modi 
fied  degree  of  mourning.  They  had  recently  lost  a 
relative.  The  relative  was  their  father.  I  have  wit 
nessed  the  gayety  and  the  flirtations  of  a  newly-made 
widow.  It  appeared  to  me  a  sorry  sight.  There  are 
human  beings,  it  cannot  be  denied,  whose  main  char 
acteristics  are  selfishness  and  heartlessness.  For  it  is 
unquestionably  true,  that  the  most  thorough  disregard 
for  the  feelings,  and  wishes,  and  interests  of  others, 
may  coexist  with  the  keenest  concern  for  one's  self. 


108  GOING  ON. 

You  will  find  people  who  bear  with  a  heroic  constancy 
the  sufferings  and  trials  of  others;  but  who  make  a 
frightful  howling  about  their  own.  And,  singularly, 
those  who  never  gave  sympathy  to  another  mortal, 
expect  that  other  mortals  shall  evince  lively  sym 
pathy  with  them.  Commend  me  to  a  thoroughly 
selfish  person,  for  loud  complaints  of  the  selfishness 
of  others. 

As  you  go  on,  you  will  come  to  understand  how  well 
you  can  be  spared  from  this  world.  You  remember 
Napoleon's  axiom,  that  No  man  is  necessary.  There 
is  no  man  in  the  world  whom  the  world  could  not  do 
without.  There  are  many  men  who,  if  they  were 
taken  away,  would  be  missed ;  would  be  very  much 
missed,  perhaps,  by  more  or  fewer  human  beings.  But 
there  is  no  man  but  what  we  may  say  of  him  that, 
useful  and  valuable  as  he  may  be,  we  might,  sooner  or 
later,  with  more  or  less  difficulty,  come  to  do  without 
him.  The  country  got  over  the  loss  of  Sir  Robert- 
Peel  and  the  Duke  of  Wellington  ;  it  misses  Prince 
Albert  yet,  but  it  is  getting  over  his  absence.  I  do 
not  mean  to  say  that  there  are  not  hearts  in  which 
a  worthy  human  being  is  always  remembered,  and 
always  missed  ;  in  which  his  absence  is  felt  as  an  irrep 
arable  loss,  making  all  life  different  from  what  it  used 
to  be.  But  in  the  case  of  each,  these  hearts  are  few. 
And  it  is  quite  fit  that  they  should  be  few.  If  our 
sympathy  with  others  were  as  keen  as  our  feeling  for 
ourselves,  we  should  get  poorly  through  life ;  with 


GOING  ON.  109 

many  persons  sympathy  is  only  too  keen  and  real  as 
it  is.  But  though  you  quite  easily  see  and  admit  that 
human  beings  can  be  spared  without  much  inconven 
ience,  when  you  think  how  the  State  comes  to  do 
without  its  lost  political  chief,  and  the  country  without 
its  departed  hero,  you  are  somewhat  apt,  till  growing 
years  have  taught  you,  to  cherish  some  lurking  belief 
that  you  yourself  will  be  missed,  and  kindly  remem 
bered,  longer  and  by  more  people  than  you  are  ever 
likely  to  be.  A  great  many  clergymen,  seeing  the 
strong  marks  of  grief  evinced  by  their  congregation 
as  they  preach  their  farewell  sermon  before  going  to 
another  parish,  can  hardly  think  how  quickly  the  con 
gregation  will  get  over  its  loss  ;  and  how  soon  it  will 
come  to  assemble  Sunday  by  Sunday  with  no  remem 
brance  at  all  of  the  familiar  face  that  used  to  look  at 
it  from  the  pulpit,  or  of  the  voice  which  once  was 
pleasant  to  hear.  Let  no  man  wilfully  withdraw  from 
his  place  in  life,  thinking  that  he  will  be  missed  so 
much  that  he  will  be  eagerly  sought  again.  If  you 
step  out  of  the  ranks,  the  crowd  may  pass  on ;  the  va 
cant  space  may  be  occupied  ;  and  you  may  never  be 
able  to  find  your  place  any  more.  There  are  far  more 
men  than  there  are  holes,  and  all  the  holes  get  filled 
up.  Who  hastily  resigned  a  bishopric  ?  who  in  dud 
geon  threw  up  an  Attorney-Generalship  ?  who  (think 
ing  he  could  not  be  spared)  abdicated  the  Chancellor 
ship  ?  And  did  not  each  of  these  men  find  out  his 
mistake  ?  The  holes  were  filled  up,  and  the  men  re- 


110  GOING  ON. 

mained  outsiders  ever  afterwards.  There  is  a  very 
striking  story  of  Hawthorne's,  analyzing  the  motives 
and  feelings  of  a  man  who,  in  some  whim,  went  away 
from  his  house  and  his  wife,  but  went  no  farther  than 
the  next  street,  and  lived  there  in  disguise  for  many 
years,  all  his  relatives  fancying  him  dead.  And  the 
eminent  American  shows,  with  wonderful  power, 
how  a  human  being  so  acting  may  make  himself  the 
outlaw  of  the  universe.  It  needs  all  your  pres 
ence,  all  your  energy,  all  your  present  services,  to 
hold  you  in  your  place  in  life,  my  friend.  There 
are  certain  things  whose  value  is  felt  through 
their  absence ;  but  I  think  that,  as  a  general  rule,  a 
man  can  make  his  value  felt  only  by  his  presence. 

A  friend  of  mine,  who  is  a  successful  author,  told 
me  how,  when  he  published  his  first  book,  he  made 
quite  sure  that  all  his  friends  would  read  it,  and  more 
particularly  that  all  his  cousins,  to  whom  he  sent  cop 
ies  of  his  book,  would  do  so.  But  he  confided  to  me, 
as  one  of  the  lessons  he  had  arrived  at  in  going  on, 
that  it  is  with  total  strangers  that  any  writer  must 
hope  for  whatever  success  he  may  reach.  Your  cous 
ins,  thinking  to  mortify  you,  will  diligently  refrain 
from  reading  your  volume.  At  least  they  will  profess 
that  they  do  so  ;  though  you  will  find  them  extremely 
well  coached  up  in  all  the  weak  and  foolish  passages 
with  which  the  reviewers  have  found  fault.  And 
these  passages  they  will  hasten  to  point  out  to  your 
father  and  mother,  also  to  your  wife,  at  the  same  time 


GOING  ON.  Ill 

expressing  their  anxious  hope  that  these  foolish  pas 
sages  may  not  do  you  harm.  My  friend  told  me  how 
in  his  first  book  there  was  a  sentence  which  his  cousins 
feared  would  give  offence  to  a  certain  eminent  person 
who  had  shown  him  kindness  ;  and  the  promptitude 
with  which  they  could  always  turn  up  the  passage, 
and  the  vigorous  and  fluent  manner  in  which  they 
could  point  out  how  offensive  it  must  prove  to  the  em 
inent  person,  testified  to  the  amount  of  pains  they  had 
bestowed  upon  the  discussion  of  the  subject.  Among 
the  six  hundred  pages,  how  easily  and  swiftly  they 
could  always  find  this  unlucky  page  !  My  friend  told 
me  that  in  a  rather  popular  book  of  his,  there  was  a 
passage  of  a  few  pages  in  length  which  had  been 
severely  criticised.  Possibly  it  was  weak  ;  possibly  it 
was  absurd.  I  confess  that  I  read  it,  and  it  did  not 
strike  me  as  remarkable.  However,  the  critics  gener 
ally  attacked  .it ;  and  probably  they  were  right.  A 
few  weeks  ago,  my  friend  told  me  he  met  a  very  pretty 
young  cousin,  of  twenty  years,  for  the  first  time. 
With  a  radiant  smile,  the  fair  cousin  began  to  talk  to 
my  friend  about  his  efforts  in  authorship.  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Smith,"  said  she,  "  do  you  know,  the  only  thing  I  ever 
read  in  your  book  was  that  part  where  you  said  "  —  no 
matter  what.  "  It  was  so  funny  !  Do  you  know,  Cousin 
Dick  showed  it  to  me  the  moment  I  arrived  at  Ana 
nias  Street !  "  I  have  not  the  faintest  doubt  that  Cousin 
Dick  did.  I  have  myself  heard  Dick  quote  a  sentence 
from  his  relative's  work,  which  sounded  very  flippant 


112  GOING  ON. 

and  presumptuous.  I  turned  up  the  page,  and  re 
quested  Dick  to  observe  that  he  was  (unintentionally, 
but)  grossly  misrepresenting  the  passage.  It  was  not 
the  least  like  what  he  quoted  ;  and  the  version  given 
by  him  was  altered  greatly  for  the  worse.  Dick  saw 
he  was  wrong.  But  several  times  since  have  I  heard 
him  give  the  incorrect  quotation,  just  as  before.  Of 
course,  his  purpose  was  not  to  represent  his  relative 
as  a  man  of  taste  and  sense. 

I  think  that  as  we  go  on  we  come  to  have  a  great 
charity  for  the  misdoings  of  our  fellow-men.  There 
are,  indeed,  flagrant  crimes,  whose  authors  can  never 
be  thought  of  but  with  a  burning  abhorrence.  I  have 
heard  of  the  doings  of  men  whom  I  should  be  happy 
to  help  to  hang.  But  I  am  thinking  of  the  little  mis 
doings  of  social  life  in  a  civilized  country.  As  for  de 
liberate  cruelty  and  oppression,  as  for  lying  and  cheat 
ing  to  make  money,  I  never  have  learned  to  think  of 
them  but  with  a  bitterness  approaching  the  ferocious. 
Nor  have  I  grown  a  bit  more  charitable  with  advanc 
ing  years  in  my  estimate  of  the  liar,  cheat,  and  black 
guard  (of  whatever  rank),  who  will  mislead  some  poor 
girl  to  her  ruin.  I  should  be  glad  to  burn  such  a  one, 
with  this  hand,  with  a  red-hot  iron,  upon  the  forehead, 
with  the  word  LIAR.  And  something  of  the  emotion 
I  feel  in  the  thought  of  him  extends  to  the  thought  of 
the  young  ladies  who  waltz  with  him,  knowing  per 
fectly  what  he  is ;  and  to  the  thought  of  the  parsons 


GOING   ON.  113 

who  toady  him,  in  hope  of  a  presentation  to  the 
wealthy  living  of  Soapy-cum-Sneaky.  But,  setting 
these  extreme  cases  aside,  you  will  come,  as  you  go 
on  through  life,  to  see  some  excuse  for  various  little 
misdoings,  towards  which  you  felt  somewhat  bitterly 
in  earlier  years.  You  will  come  to  frankly  recognize 
the  truth,  which  at  first  you  are  slow  to  admit,  that 
there  are  certain  positions  which  are  too  much  for 
human  nature.  I  mean  too  much  for  human  nature 
to  hold  without  exhibiting  a  good  deal  of  pettiness, 
envy,  spitefulness,  and  malevolence  ;  unless,  indeed, 
with  very  fine  and  amiable  natures.  There  is  an  ec- 
clesiasiastical  arrangement  peculiar  to  Scotland  ;  it  is 
what  is  termed  a  Collegiate  Charge.  It  means  that  a 
parish  church  shall  have  two  incumbents  of  authority, 
dignity,  and  eminence,  exactly  similar.  The  incum 
bents,  in  many  cases,  quarrel  outright ;  in  many  more 
they  do  not  work  cordially  together.  In  a  smaller 
number,  indeed,  they  have  been  known  to  be  as 
brothers,  or  as  father  and  son.  There  is  something 
trying  in  the  position  of  a  parish  clergyman  who  has 
a  curate,  or  assistant,  who  is  more  popular  than  him 
self.  You  may  sometimes  find  a  church  poorly  at 
tended  when  the  clergyman  preaches,  but  crowded 
when  the  curate  does  so.  Even  in  such  a  case,  if  the 
rector  be  a  good  man,  and  the  curate  another,  perfect 
kindliness  may  exist  between  the  rector  and  the  cu 
rate  ;  but  I  doubt  whether  that  kindliness  is  much  to 
be  expected  from  the  rector's  wife.  And  when  the 


114  GOING  ON. 

curate  at  length  gets  a  parish  of  his  own,  he  need  not 
expect  that  his  old  principal  will  often  ask  him  back 
to  preach.  Now,  many  people  will  be  found  ready  to 
speak  with  much  severity  of  the  principal  who  acts 
thus ;  and  to  blame  the  clergyman  who,  not  being  able 
to  fill  his  church  himself,  prefers  having  it  empty  to 
seeing  it  filled  by  any  one  else.  Such  people  are 
unquestionably  wrong.  They  expect  from  the  poor 
clergyman  more  than  ought  to  be  looked  for  from 
average  human  nature.  The  clergyman's  conduct  is 
very  natural.  Put  yourself  in  his  place  ;  look  at  the 
matter  from  his  point  of  view.  You  would  not  like 
yourself  the  thing  he  does  not  like.  You  would  very 
possibly  do  exactly  what  he  does.  And  you  might 
do  it  all  quite  conscientiously.  You  might  fancy  you 
had  high  and  pure  reasons  for  what  you  did,  and  that 
there  was  no  intrusion  of  jealousy.  The  young  cu 
rate's  sermons  were,  very  likely,  very  crude  and  ex 
travagant  ;  and  you  may  honestly  think  it  your  duty 
to  prevent  your  people  from  being  presented  with 
spiritual  food  so  immature.  And  rely  upon  it,  those 
men  who  carefully  exclude  from  their  pulpits  all  in- 
tresting  and  attractive  preachers,  and  put  there  (in 
their  own  absence)  the  dullest  and  poorest  preachers 
they  can  find,  though  doubtless  actuated  in  great  meas 
ure  by  a  determination  that  they  themselves  shall  not 
be  eclipsed,  but  shall  rather  shine  by  comparison,  are 
quite  able  to  persuade  themselves  that  they  act  from 
the  purest  motives.  But  even  while  you  pity  the 


GOING  ON.  115 

men  (let  us  hope  there  are  very  few)  in  whose  mind 
such  unworthy  considerations  have  weight,  do  not 
blame  them  severely.  They  are  in  a  difficult  posi 
tion.  No  doubt  they  would  find  it  happier  as  well  as 
worthier  to  spurn  the  first  suggestion  of  petty  jeal 
ousy  ;  no  doubt  the  magnanimous  man  would  do  so  ; 
but  there  are  men  who  are  not  magnanimous,  and 
who  could  no  more  be  magnanimous  than  they  could 
be  six  feet  high,  or  than  they  could  write  King  Lear. 
Now,  my  friend,  as  you  go  on,  you  come  to  under 
stand  all  these  things.  You  learn  to  make  great 
allowances  for  the  pettiness  of  human  nature.  You 
come  to  be  able  to  treat  with  cordiality  people  to 
whom  in  your  hot  and  hasty  youth  you  could  not 
have  spoken  without  giving  them  a  bit  of  your  mind 
which  they  would  not  have  liked  to  hear.  And  when 
I  say  that  with  advancing  years  you  come  to  excuse 
human  misdoings,  I  do  not  mean  that  as  we  grow 
older  we  come  to  think  more  lightly  of  the  difference 
between  right  and  wrong,  or  between  the  generous 
and  the  mean.  I  hope  we  know  better  than  that.  It 
is  another  principle  that  comes  into  play  —  the  prin 
ciple,  to  wit,  that  not  being  without  sin  yourself,  you 
should  be  slow  to  cast  a  stone  at  an  erring  brother. 
It  has  been  already  said  that  there  are  cases  as  to 
which  we  shall  not  reason  thus.  Of  heartless  and 
deliberate  cruelty  and  treachery  we  shall  never  think 
but  with  fury  ;  and  we  do  not  wish  ever  to  think  but 
with  fury.  Give  me  the  knout,  and  lead  out  one  of 


116  GOING   ON. 

several  human  beings  of  whom  I  have  heard,  and  I 
will  warrant  you  you  should  hear  extensive  howling  ! 
I  am  not  afraid  to  plead  the  highest  of  all  precedents, 
for  the  permission  of  the  bitterest  wrath  and  for  the 
dealing  of  the  sharpest  blows.  But  I  humbly  and 
firmly  trust,  my  friendly  reader,  that  in  you  and  me 
there  is  nothing  like  heartless,  deliberate  cruelty  and 
treachery.  We  have  no  sympathy  at  all  with  these, 
any  more  than  with  the  peculiar  taste  which  makes 
worms  like  filth.  But  as  to  very  much  of  human 
error  and  weakness,  do  you  not  feel  in  yourself  the 
capacities  which  (though  restrained  by  God's  grace) 
might  have  brought  you  to  all  that  ?  The  thing  we 
can  least  forgive  is  that  which  we  cannot  imagine  how 
any  one  could  do  —  that  which  we  think  we  have  in 
us  nothing  like. 

In  your  earlier  days,  you  were  perpetually  getting 
into  scrapes,  by  speaking  hastily  and  acting  hastily. 
As  you  go  on,  you  learn  by  experience  to  avoid  these 
things  in  great  measure ;  and  you  learn  to  be  very 
cautious  as  to  the  people  you  will  take  into  your 
confidence.  It  is  a  sorrowful  lesson  of  experience, 
but  it  is  a  lesson  of  experience,  that  there  are  many 
people  to  whom  you  should  never  say  a  sentence,  with 
out  first  calculating  whether  that  sentence  can  be 
repeated,  or  can  be  misrepresented,  to  your  disad 
vantage.  Like  a  skilful  chess-player,  you  need  to 
consider  what  may  be  the  result  of  this  move.  It  is 
to  be  admitted,  that  much  of  worldly  wisdom  is  far 


GOING  ON.  117 

from  being  a  pleasing  or  noble  thing.  You  learn  by- 
experience  a  great  deal  which  it  is  right  you  should 
know  and  act  upon,  yet  which  does  not  ennoble  you. 
It  is  a  fine  sight,  after  all,  a  warm-hearted,  outspoken, 
injudicious  man  of  more  than  middle  age  !  I  know 
well. an  eminent  professor  in  a  certain  university,  who 
is  a  very  clever  and  learned  man,  and  a  very  inju 
dicious  one.  I  admire  his  talents  and  his  learning; 
but  I  feel  a  warm  affection  for  his  outspoken  and 
injudicious  honesty  and  truthfulness.  I  am  quite  sure 
that  if  he  thought  a  neighboring  marquis  a  humbug, 
he  would  call  him  one.  I  have  the  strongest  ground 
for  believing  that  if  he  thought  a  bishop  a  fool,  he 
would  say  so.  Let  us  ever  try  to  hold  our  prudence 
free  from  the  suspicion  of  baseness.  I  trust  that  as 
we  go  -on,  we  are  not  coming  to  practise  sneaky  arts 
to  the  end  of  getting  on.  Sneakiness,  and  underhand 
dealing,  are  doubtless  to  be  reckoned  among  the  arts 
of  self-advancement.  Honesty  is,  in  many  cases, 
unquestionably  the  very  worst  policy.  But  though 
honesty  be  so,  honesty  is  the  right  thing,  after  all ! 
But  honest  men  sometimes  think  to  possess,  together, 
two  inconsistent  things.  They  think  to  possess  the 
high  sense  of  scrupulous  integrity ;  and  at  the  same 
time  the  favor,  patronage,  and  profit,  which  can  be 
had  only  by  parting  with  that. 

We  are  all  going  on  :  a  man  here  and  there  is  also 
getting  on.     As  you  look  round  upon  the  people  who 


118  GOING  ON. 

started  with  yon,  you  will  discern  that  even  those  who 
are  doing  well  in  life,  for  the  most  part  reached  their 
utmost  elevation  before  very  many  years  were  gone ; 
and  for  a  large  tract  of  time  past  have  not  been 
gaining.  They  are  going  on,  in  short :  Time  makes 
sure  that  we  all  shall  do  that ;  but  they  are  not 
getting  on.  Their  income  is  just  the  same  now  that 
it  was  five  or  ten  years  since  ;  and  the  estimation  in 
which  they  are  held  by  those  who  know  them  has 
neither  grown  nor  lessened.  But  there  is  a  man  here 
and  there  who  is  growing  bigger  as  well  as  growing 
older.  He  is  corning,  yearly,  to  be  better  known ; 
he  is  gaining  in  wealth,  in  influence,  in  reputation. 
Every  walk  of  life  has  its  rising  men.  There  are 
country  gentlemen  who  gradually  elbow  their  way 
forward  among  the  members  of  their  class,  till  they 
stand  conspicuously  apart  from  them.  So  with 
painters,  authors,  barristers,  preachers.  Who  are 
they,  among  those  whom  I  know,  who  are  making 
way,  and  rising  in  the  world?  And  what  is  the 
secret  of  their  success  ?  I  must  stop  and  think. 


CHAPTER  V. 
CONCERNING    DISAGREEABLE    PEOPLE. 

N  the  whole,  it  was  very  disagreeable. 

Thus  wrote  a  certain  great  traveller 
and  hunter,  summing  up  an  account  of 
his  position  as  he  composed  himself  to 
rest  upon  a  certain  evening  after  a  hard  day's  work. 
And  no  doubt  it  must  have  been  very  disagreeable. 
The  night  was  cold  and  dark ;  and  the  intrepid 
traveller  had  to  lie  down  to  sleep  in  the  open  air, 
without  even  a  tree  to  shelter  him.  A  heavy  shower 
of  hail  was  falling ;  each  hailstone  about  the  size  of 
an  egg.  The  dark  air  was  occasionally  illuminated 
by  forked  lightning,  of  the  most  appalling  aspect ; 
and  the  thunder  was  deafening.  By  various  sounds, 
heard  in  the  intervals  of  the  peals,  it  seemed  evident 
that  the  vicinity  was  pervaded  by  wolves,  tigers, 
elephants,  wild  boars,  and  serpents.  A  peculiar 
motion,  perceptible  under  a  horsecloth  which  was 
wrapped  up  to  serve  as  a  pillow,  appeared  to  indicate 
that  a  snake  was  wriggling  about  underneath  it.  The 
hunter  had  some  ground  for  thinking  that  it  was  a 


120        CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

very  venomous  one ;  as  indeed  in  the  morning  it 
proved  to  be ;  but  he  was  too  tired  to  look.  And 
speaking  of  the  general  condition  of  matters  upon 
that  evening,  the  hunter  stated,  with  great  mildness 
of  language,  that  "  it  was  very  disagreeable." 

Most  readers  would  be  disposed  to  say,  that  dis 
agreeable  was  hardly  the  right  word.  No  doubt,  all 
things  that  are  perilous,  horrible,  awful,  ghastly,  dead 
ly  and  the  like,  are  disagreeable  too.  But  when  we 
use  the  word  disagreeable  by  itself,  our  meaning  is  un 
derstood  to  be,  that  in  calling  the  thing  disagreeable, 
we  have  said  the  worst  of  it.  A  long  and  tiresome 
sermon  is  disagreeable ;  but  a  venomous  snake  under 
your  pillow  passes  beyond  being  disagreeable.  To 
have  a  tooth  stopped,  is  disagreeable  ;  to  be  broken 
on  the  wheel  (though  nobody  could  like  it),  transcends 
that.  If  a  thing  be  horrible  and  awful,  you  would  not 
say  it  was  disagreeable.  The  greater  includes  the 
less ;  as  when  a  human  being  becomes  entitled  to 
write  D.  D.  after  his  name,  he  drops  all  mention  of 
the  M.  A.  borne  in  preceding  years. 

Let  this  truth  be  remembered,  by  such  as  shall  read 
the  following  pages.  We  are  to  think  about  Disagree 
able  People.  Let  it  be  understood  that  (speaking 
generally)  we  are  to  think  of  people  who  are  no  worse 
than  disagreeable.  It  cannot  be  denied,  even  by  the 
most  prejudiced,  that  murderers,  pirates,  slave-drivers, 
and  burglars,  are  disagreeable.  The  cut-throat ;  the 
poisoner ;  the  sneaking  blackguard  who  shoots  his 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.        121 

landlord  from  behind  a  hedge,  are  no  doubt  disagree 
able  people  ;  so  very  disagreeable  that  in  this  country 
the  common  consent  of  mankind  removes  them  from 
human  society  by  the  instrumentality  of  a  halter.  But 
disagreeable  is  too  mild  a  word.  Such  people  are  all 
that,  and  a  great  deal  more.  And  accordingly,  they 
stand  beyond  the  range  of  this  dissertation.  We  are 
to  treat  of  folk  who  are  disagreeable  ;  and  not  worse 
than  disagreeable.  We  may  sometimes,  indeed,  over 
step  the  boundary  line.  But  it  is  to  be  remembered, 
that  there  are  people  who  in  the  main  are  good  peo 
ple,  who  yet  are  extremely  disagreeable.  And  a  far 
ther  complication  is  introduced  into  the  subject  by  the 
fact,  that  some  people  who  are  far  from  good,  are  yet 
unquestionably  agreeable.  You  disapprove  them  ;  but 
you  cannot  help  liking  them.  Others,  again,  are  sub 
stantially  good  ;  yet  you  are  angry  with  yourself  to 
find  that  you  cannot  like  them. 

I  take  for  granted  that  all  observant  human  beings 
will  admit  that  in  this  world  there  are  disagreeable 
people.  Probably  the  distinction  which  presses  itself 
most  strongly  upon  our  attention  as  we  mingle  in  the 
society  of  our  fellow-men,  is  the  distinction  between 
agreeable  people  and  disagreeable.  There  are  various 
tests,  more  or  less  important,  which  put  all  mankind 
to  right  and  left.  A  familiar  division  is  into  rich  and 
poor.  Thomas  Paine,  with  great  vehemence,  denied 
the  propriety  of  that  classification  ;  and  declared  that 


122         CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

the  only  true  and  essential  classification  of  mankind 
is  into  male  and  female.  I  have  read  a  story  whose 
author  maintained,  that,  to  his  mind,  by  far  the  most 
interesting  and  thorough  division  of  our  race  is  into 
such  as  have  been  hanged  and  such  as  have  not  been 
hanged ;  he  himself  belonging  to  the  former  class. 
But  we  all,  more  or  less,  recognize  and  act  upon  the 
great  classification  of  all  human  beings  into  the  agree 
able  and  the  disagreeable.  And  we  begin  very  early 
to  recognize  and  act  upon  it.  Very  early  in  life,  the 
little  child  understands  and  feels  the  vast  difference 
between  people  who  are  nice,  and  people  who  are  not 
nice.  In  schoolboy  days,  the  first  thing  settled  as  to 
any  new  acquaintance,  man  or  boy,  is  on  which  side 
he  stands  of  the  great  boundary  line.  It  is  not  genius, 
not  scholarship,  not  wisdom,  not  strength  nor  speed, 
that  fixes  the  man's  place.  None  of  these  things  is 
chiefly  looked  to ;  the  question  is,  Is  he  agreeable  or 
disagreeable  ?  And  according  as  that  question  is  de 
cided,  the  man  is  described,  in  the  forcible  language 
of  youth,  as  "  a  brick,"  or  as  "  a  beast." 

Yet  it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  the  division  be 
tween  the  agreeable  and  disagreeable  of  mankind,  is 
one  which  may  be  transcended.  It  is  a  scratch  on  the 
earth  ;  not  a  ten-foot  wall.  And  you  will  find  men 
who  pass  from  one  side  of  it  to  the  other ;  and  back 
again  ;  probably  several  times  in  a  week,  or  even  in  a 
day.  There  are  people  whom  you  never  know  where 
to  have.  They  are  constantly  skipping  from  side  to 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.        123 

side  of  that  line  of  demarcation  ;  or  they  even  walk 
along  with  a  foot  on  each  side  of  it.  There  are  peo 
ple  who  are  always  disagreeable  ;  and  disagreeable  to 
all  men.  There  are  people  who  are  agreeable  at  some 
times,  and  disagreeable  at  others.  There  are  people 
who  are  agreeable  to  some  men  and  disagreeable  to 
other  men.  I  do  not  intend  by  the  last-named  class, 
people  who  intentionally  make  themselves  agreeable 
to  a  certain  portion  of  the  race,  to  which  they  think  it 
worth  while  to  make  themselves  agreeable  ;  and  who 
do  not  take  that  trouble  in  the  case  of  the  remainder 
of  humankind.  What  I  mean  is  this :  that  there  are 
people  who  have  such  an  affinity  and  sympathy  with 
certain  other  people  ;  who  so  suit  certain  other  people  ; 
that  they  are  agreeable  to  these  other  people ;  though 
perhaps  not  particularly  so  to  the  race  at  large.  And 
exceptional  tastes  and  likings  are  often  the  strongest. 
The  thing  you  like  enthusiastically,  another  man  ab 
solutely  loathes.  The  thing  which  all  men  like,  is  for 
the  most  part  liked  with  a  mild  and  subdued  liking. 
Everybody  likes  good  and  well-made  bread ;  but  no 
body  goes  into  raptures  over  it.  Few  persons  like 
caviare  ;  but  those  who  like  it  are  very  fond  of  it.  I 
never  knew  but  one  being  who  liked  mustard  with 
apple-pie  ;  but  that  solitary  man  ate  it  with  avidity, 
and  praised  the  flavor  with  enthusiasm. 

But  it  is  impossible  to  legislate  for  every  individual 
case.  Every  rule  must  have  exceptions  from  it ;  but 
it  would  be  foolish  to  resolve  to  lay  down  no  more 


124        CONCERNING   DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

rules.  There  may  be,  somewhere,  the  man  who  likes 
Mr.  Snarling ;  and  to  that  man  Mr.  Snarling  would 
doubtless  be  agreeable.  But  for  practical  purposes, 
Mr.  Snarling  may  justly  be  described  as  a  disagree 
able  man,  if  he  be  disagreeable  to  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  mortals  out  of  every  thousand.  And  with 
precision  sufficient  for  the  ordinary  business  of  life, 
we  may  say  that  there  are  people  who  are  essentially 
disagreeable. 

There  are  people  who  go  through  life,  leaving  an 
unpleasant  influence  on  all  whom  they  come  near. 
You  are  not  at  your  ease  in  their  society.  You  feel 
awkward  and  constrained  while  with  them.  That  is 
probably  the  mildest  degree  in  the  scale  of  unpleasant 
ness.  There  are  people  who  disseminate  a  much 
worse  influence.  As  the  upas-tree  was  said  to  blight 
all  the  country  round  it,  so  do  these  disagreeable  folk 
prejudicially  aifect  the  whole  surrounding  moral  at 
mosphere.  They  chill  all  warmth  of  heart  in  those 
near  them  ;  they  put  down  anything  generous  or  mag 
nanimous  ;  they  suggest  unpleasant  thoughts  and  asso 
ciations  ;  they  excite  a  diverse  and  numerous  array 
of  bad  tempers.  The  great  evil  of  disagreeable  peo 
ple  lies  in  this  :  that  they  tend  powerfully  to  make 
other  people  disagreeable  too.  And  these  people  are 
not  necessarily  bad  people,  though  they  produce  a  bad 
effect.  It  is  not  certain  that  they  design  to  be  disa 
greeable.  There  are  those  who  do  entertain  that 
design  ;  and  they  always  succeed  in  carrying  it  out. 


CONCERNING   DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.         125 

Nobody  ever  tried  diligently  to  be  disagreeable,  and 
failed.  Such  persons  may  indeed  inflict  much  less 
annoyance  than  they  wished  ;  they  may  even  fail  of 
inflicting  any  pain  whatever  on  others  ;  but  they  make 
themselves  as  disgusting  as  they  could  desire.  And 
in  many  cases,  they  succeed  in  inflicting  a  good  deal 
of  pain.  A  very  low,  vulgar,  petty,  and  uncultivated 
nature,  may  cause  much  suffering  to  a  lofty,  noble, 
and  refined  one  ;  particularly  if  the  latter  be  in  a  posi 
tion  of  dependence  or  subjection.  A  wretched  hornet 
may  madden  a  noble  horse  ;  a  contemptible  mosquito 
may  destroy  the  night's  rest  which  would  have  re 
cruited  a  noble  brain.  But  without  any  evil  inten 
tion  ;  sometimes  with  the  very  kindest  intention ; 
there  are  those  who  worry  and  torment  you.  It  is 
through  want  of  perception  ;  want  of  tact ;  coarseness 
of  nature  ;  utter  lack  of  power  to  understand  you. 
Were  you  ever  sitting  in  a  considerable  company,  a 
good  deal  saddened  by  something  you  did  not  choose  to 
tell  to  any  one,  and  probably  looking  dull  and  dispir 
ited  enough  ;  and  did  a  fussy  host  or  hostess  draw  the 
attention  of  the  entire  party  upon  you,  by  earnestly 
and  repeatedly  asking  if  you  were  ill,  if  you  had  a 
headache,  because  you  seemed  so  dull  and  so  unlike 
yourself?  And  did  that  person  time  after  time  return 
to  the  charge,  till  you  would  have  liked  to  poison  him  ? 
There  is  nothing  more  disagreeable,  and  few  things 
more  mischievous,  than  a  well-meaning,  meddling  fool. 
And  where  there  was  no  special  intention,  good  or 


126         CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

bad,  towards  yourself,  you  have  known  people  make 
you  uncomfortable  through  the  simple  exhibition  to 
you,  and  pressure  upon  you,  of  their  own  inherent  dis- 
agreeableness.  You  have  known  people  after  talking 
to  whom  for  awhile,  you  felt  disgusted  with  every 
thing  ;  and  above  all,  with  those  people  themselves. 
Talking  to  them,  you  felt  your  moral  nature  being  rub 
bed  against  the  grain  ;  being  stung  all  over  with  net 
tles.  You  showed  your  new  house  and  furniture  to 
such  a  man  ;  and  with  eagle  eye  he  traced  out  and 
pointed  out  every  scratch  on  your  fine  fresh  paint, 
and  every  flaw  in  your  oak  and  walnut.  He  showed 
you  that  there  were  corners  of  your  big  mirrors  that 
distort  your  face  ;  that  there  were  bits  of  your  grand 
marble  mantel-pieces  that  might  be  expected  soon  to 
scale  away.  Or  you  have  known  a  man  who,  with  no 
evil  intention,  made  it  his  practice  to  talk  of  you  be 
fore  your  face,  as  your  other  friends  are  accustomed 
to  talk  of  you  behind  your  back.  It  need  not  be  said 
that  the  result  is  anything  but  pleasant.  "  What  a 
fool  you  were,  Smith,  in  saying  that  at  Snooks's  last 
night,"  your  friend  exclaims  when  you  meet  him  next 
morning.  You  were  quite  aware,  by  this  time,  that 
what  you  said  was  foolish  ;  but  there  is  something 
grating  in  hearing  your  name  connected  with  the  un 
pleasant  name.  I  would  strongly  advise  any  man, 
who  does  not  wish  to  be  set  down  as  disagreeable, 
entirely  to  break  off  the  habit  (if  he  has  such  a  habit) 
of  addressing  to  even  his  best  friends  any  sentence 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.        127 

beginning  with  "  What  a  fool  you  were."  Let  me 
offer  the  like  advice  as  to  sentences  which  set  out  as 
follows  :  "  I  say,  Smith,  I  think  your  brother  is  the 
greatest  fool  on  the  face  of  the  earth."  Stop  that 
kind  of  thing,  my  friend  ;  or  you  may  come  to  be 
classed  with  Mr.  Snarling.  You  are  probably  a 
manly  fellow,  and  a  sincere  friend  ;  and  for  the  sake 
of  your  substantial  good  qualities,  one  would  stand  a 
great  deal.  But  over-frankness  is  disagreeable  ;  and 
if  you  make  over-frankness  your  leading  characteris 
tic,  of  course  your  entire  character  will  come  to  be 
a  disagreeable  one  ;  and  you  will  be  a  disagreeable 
person. 

Besides  the  people  who  are  disagreeable  through 
malignant  intention,  and  through  deficiency  of  sen 
sitiveness,  there  are  other  people  who  are  disagreeable 
through  pure  ill-luck.  It  is  quite  certain  that  there 
are  people  whom  evil  fortune  dogs  through  all  their 
life :  who  are  thoroughly  and  hopelessly  unlucky. 
And  in  no  respect  have  we  beheld  a  man's  ill-luck  so 
persecute  him,  as  in  the  matter  of  making  him  (with 
out  the  slightest  evil  purpose,  and  even  when  he  is 
most  anxious  to  render  himself  agreeable),  render 
himself  extremely  disagreeable.  Of  course  there  must 
be  some  measure  of  thoughtlessness  and  forgetfulness  ; 
some  lack  of  that  social  caution  so  indispensable  in  the 
complication  of  modern  society,  which  teaches  a  man 
(so  to  speak)  to  try  if  the  ice  will  bear  him  before 
venturing  his  entire  weight  upon  it ;  about  people  who 


128        CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

are  unlucky  in  the  way  of  which  I  am  speaking.  But 
doubtless  you  have  known  persons  Avho  were  always 
saying  disagreeable  things,  or  putting  disagreeable 
questions;  either  through  forgetfulness  of  things  which 
they  ought  to  have  remembered,  or  through  unhappily 
chancing  on  forbidden  ground.  You  will  find  a  man, 
a  thoughtless  but  quite  good-natured  man,  begin  at  a 
dinner-table  to  relate  a  succession  of  stories  very  much 
to  the  prejudice  of  somebody  ;  while  somebody's  daugh 
ter  is  sitting  opposite  him.  And  you  will  find  the 
man  quite  obtuse  to  all  the  hints  by  which  the  host  or 
hostess  tries  to  stop  him  ;  and  going  on  to  particulars 
worse  and  worse  ;  till  in  terror  of  what  all  this  might 
grow  to,  the  hostess  has  to  exclaim,  "  Mr.  Smith,  you 
won't  take  a  hint ;  that  is  Mr.  Somebody's  daughter 
sitting  opposite  you."  It  is  quite  essential  that  any 
man,  whose  conversation  consists  mainly  of  observa 
tions  not  at  all  to  the  advantage  of  some  absent  ac 
quaintance,  should  carefully  feel  his  way  before  giv 
ing  full  scope  to  his  malice  and  his  invention,  in  the 
presence  of  any  general  company.  And  before  mak 
ing  any  playful  reference  to  halters,  you  should  be 
clear  that  you  are  not  talking  to  a  man  whose  grand 
father  was  hanged.  Nor  should  you  venture  any 
depreciatory  remarks  upon  men  who  have  risen  from 
the  ranks,  unless  you  are  tolerably  versed  in  the  fam 
ily  history  of  those  to  whom  you  are  talking.  You 
may  have  heard  a  man  very  jocular  upon  lunatic  asy 
lums,  to  another  who  had  several  brothers  and  sisters 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.        129 

in  one.  And  though  in  some  cases,  human  beings  may 
render  themselves  disagreeable  through  a  combination 
of  circumstances  which  really  absolves  them  from  all 
blame  ;  yet,  as  a  general  rule,  the  man  who  is  disa 
greeable  through  ill-luck  is  at  least  guilty  of  culpable 
carelessness. 

You  have  probably,  my  reader,  known  people  who 
had  the  faculty  of  making  themselves  extremely 
agreeable.  You  have  known  one  or  two  men  who, 
whenever  you  met  them,  conveyed  to  you  by  a  re 
markably  frank  and  genial  manner,  an  impression 
that  they  esteemed  you  as  one  of  their  best  and  dear 
est  friends.  A  vague  idea  took  possession  of  your 
mind,  that  they  had  been  longing  to  see  you  ever 
since  they  saw  you  last :  which  in  all  probability  was 
six  or  twelve  months  previously.  And  during  all 
that  period  it  may  be  regarded  as  quite  certain,  that 
the  thought  of  you  had  never  once  entered  their 
mind.  Such  a  manner  has  a  vast  effect  upon  young 
and  inexperienced  folk.  The  inexperienced  man  fan 
cies  that  this  manner,  so  wonderfully  frank  and  friend 
ly,  is  reserved  specially  for  himself ;  and  is  a  recog 
nition  of  his  own  special  excellences.  But  the  man 
of  greater  experience  has  come  to  suspect  this  man 
ner,  and  to  see  through  it.  He  has  discovered  that 
it  is  the  same  to  everybody  :  at  least,  to  everybody 
to  whom  it  is  thought  worth  while  to  put  it  on.  And 
he  no  more  thinks  of  arguing  the  existence  of  any 


130        CONCERNING   DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

particular  liking  for  himself,  or  of  any  particular 
merit  in  himself,  from  that  friendly  manner ;  than 
he  thinks  of  believing,  on  a  warm  summer  day,  that 
the  sun  has  a  special  liking  for  himself,  and  is  look 
ing  so  beautiful  and  bright  all  for  himself.  It  is  per 
haps  unjust  to  accuse  the  man,  always  overflowing  in 
geniality  upon  everybody  he  meets,  of  being  an  im 
postor  or  humbug.  Perhaps  he  does  feel  an  irrepres 
sible  gush  of  love  to  all  his  race  ;  but  why  convey  to 
each  individual  of  the  race  that  he  loves  him  more 
than  all  the  others  ? 

Yet  it  is  to  be  admitted,  that  it  is  always  well  that 
a  man  should  be  agreeable.  Pleasantness  is  always  a 
pleasing  thing.  And  a  sensible  man,  seeking  by  hon 
est  means  to  make  himself  agreeable,  will  generally 
succeed  in  making  himself  agreeable  to  sensible  men. 
But  although  there  is  an  implied  compliment,  to  your 
power  if  not  to  your  personality,  in  the  fact  of  a 
man's  taking  pains  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  you  ; 
it  is  certain  that  he  may  try  to  make  himself  so  by 
means  of  which  the  upshot  will  be,  to  make  him  in 
tensely  disagreeable.  You  know  the  fawning,  sneak 
ing  manner  which  an  occasional  shopkeeper  adopts. 
It  is  most  disagreeable  to  right-thinking  people.  Let 
him  remember  that  he  is  also  a  man  ;  and  let  his 
manner  be  manly  as  well  as  civil.  It  is  an  awful  and 
humiliating  sight,  a  man  who  is  always  squeezing 
himself  together  like  a  whipped  dog  whenever  you 
speak  to  him  ;  grinning  and  bowing  ;  and  (in  a  moral 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.        131 

sense)  wriggling  about  before  you  on  the  earth,  and 
begging  you  to  wipe  your  feet  on  his  head.  You 
cannot  help  thinking  that  the  sneak  would  be  a  ty 
rant  if  he  had  the  opportunity.  It  is  pleasant  to  find 
people  in  the  humblest  position,  blending  a  manly  in 
dependence  of  demeanor  with  the  regard  justly  due  to 
those  placed  by  Providence  farther  up  the  social  scale. 
Yet  doubtless  there  are  persons  to  whom  the  sneak 
iest  manner  is  agreeable  ;  who  enjoy  the  flattery  and 
the  humiliation  of  the  wretched  toady  who  is  always 
ready  to  tell  them  that  they  are  the  most  beautiful, 
graceful,  witty,  well-informed,  aristocratic-looking,  and 
generally-beloved,  of  the  human  race.  You  must  re 
member  that  it  depends  very  much  upon  the  nature 
of  a  man  himself,  whether  any  particular  demeanor 
shall  be  agreeable  to  him  or  not.  And  you  know 
well  that  a  cringing,  toadying  manner,  which  would 
be  thoroughly  disgusting  to  a  person  of  sense,  may 
be  extremely  agreeable  and  delightful  to  a  self-con 
ceited  idiot.  Was  there  not  an  idiotic  monarch,  who 
was  greatly  pleased  when  his  courtiers,  in  speaking 
to  him,  affected  to  veil  their  eyes  with  their  hands,  as 
unable  to  bear  the  insufferable  effulgence  of  his  coun 
tenance  ?  And  would  not  a  monarch  of  sense  have 
been  ready  to  kick  the  people  who  thus  treated  him 
like  a  fool  ?  And  every  one  has  observed  that  there 
are  silly  women  who  are  much  gratified  by  coarse  and 
fulsome  compliments  upon  their  personal  appearance, 
which  would  be  regarded  as  grossly  insulting  by  a 


132        CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE   PEOPLE. 

woman  of  sense.  You  may  have  heard  of  country 
gentlemen,  of  Radical  politics,  who  had  seldom  wan 
dered  beyond  their  paternal  acres  (by  their  paternal 
acres  I  mean  the  acres  they  had  recently  bought), 
and  who  had  there  grown  into  a  fixed  belief  that  they 
were  among  the  noblest  and  mightiest  of  the  earth  ; 
who  thought  their  parish  clergyman  an  agreeable 
man  if  he  voted  at  the  county  election  for  the  candi 
date  they  supported,  though  that  candidate's  politics 
were  directly  opposed  to  those  of  the  parson.  These 
individuals,  of  course,  would  hold  their  clergyman  as 
a  disagreeable  man,  if  he  held  by  his  own  principles  ; 
and  quite  declined  to  take  their  wishes  into  account 
in  exercising  the  trust  of  the  franchise.  Now  of 
course  a  nobleman  or  gentleman  of  right  feeling, 
would  regard  the  parson  as  a  turncoat  and  sneak, 
who  should  thus  deny  his  convictions.  Yes  :  there  is 
no  doubt  that  you  may  make  yourself  agreeable  to 
unworthy  folk,  by  unworthy  means.  A  late  notori 
ous  Marquis  declared  on  his  dying  bed,  that  a  two- 
legged  animal  of  human  pretensions,  who  had  acted 
as  his  valet,  and  had  aided  that  hoary  reprobate  in. 
the  gratification  of  his  peculiar  tastes,  was  "  an  ex 
cellent  man."  And  you  may  remember  how  Burke 
said  that  as  we  learn  that  a  certain  Mr.  Russell  made 
himself  very  agreeable  to  Henry  the  Eighth,  we  may 
reasonably  suppose  that  Mr.  Russell  was  himself  (in  a 
humble  degree)  something  like  his  master.  Proba 
bly  to  most  right-minded  men,  the  fact  that  a  man 


CONCERNING   DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.         133 

was  agreeable  to  Henry  the  Eighth,  or  to  the  Marquis 
in  question,  or  to  Belial,  Beelzebub,  or  Apollyon, 
would  tend  to  make  that  man  remarkably  disagree 
able.  And  let  the  reader  remember  the  guarded  way 
in  which  the  writer  laid  down  his  general  principle  as 
to  pleasantness  of  character  and  demeanor.  I  said 
that  a  sensible  man,  seeking  by  honest  means  to 
make  himself  agreeable,  will  generally  succeed  in 
making  himself  agreeable  to  sensible  men.  I  ex 
clude  from  the  class  of  men  to  be  esteemed  agree 
able,  those  who  would  disgust  all  but  fools  or  black 
guards.  I  exclude  parsons  who  express  heretical 
views  in  theology,  in  the  presence  of  a  patron  known 
to  be  a  free-thinker.  I  exclude  men  who  do  great 
folk's  dirty  work.  I  exclude  all  toad-eaters,  sneaks, 
flatterers,  and  fawning  impostors  ;  from  the  schoolboy 
who  thinks  to  gain  his  master's  favor  by  voluntarily 
bearing  tales  of  his  companions,  up  to  the  bishop  who 
declared  that  he  regarded  it  not  merely  as  a  constitu 
tional  principle  but  as  an  ethical  fact,  that  the  King 
could  do  no  wrong  ;  and  the  other  bishop  who  de 
clared  that  the  reason  why  George  the  Second  died, 
was  that  this  world  was  not  good  enough  for  him,  and 
it  was  necessary  to  transfer  him  to  heaven  that  he 
might  be  the  right  man  in  the  right  place.  Such  per 
sons  may  succeed  in  making  themselves  agreeable  to 
the  man  with  whom  they  desire  to  ingratiate  them 
selves,  provided  that  man  be  a  fool  or  a  knave  ;  but 
they  assuredly  render  themselves  disagreeable,  not  to 


134        CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

say  revolting,  to  all  human  beings  whose  good  opinion 
is  worth  the  possessing.  And  though  any  one  who  is 
not  a  fool  will  generally  make  himself  agreeable  to 
people  of  ordinary  temper  and  nervous  system  if  he 
wishes  to  do  so  ;  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  too  in 
trusive  attempts  to  be  agreeable  often  make  a  man 
very  disagreeable  ;  and  likewise,  that  a  man  is  the 
reverse  of  agreeable  if  you  see  that  he  is  trying  by 
managing  and  humoring  you  to  make  himself  agree 
able  to  you.  I  mean,  if  you  can  see  that  he  is  smooth 
ing  you  down,  and  agreeing  with  you,  and  trying  to 
get  you  on  your  blind  side,  as  if  he  thought  you  a 
baby  or  a  lunatic.  And  there  is  all  the  difference  in 
the  world,  between  the  frank  hearty  wish  in  man  or 
woman  to  be  agreeable  ;  and  this  diplomatic  and  in 
direct  way.  No  man  likes  to  think  that  he  is  being 
managed  as  Mr.  Rarey  might  manage  an  unbroken 
colt.  And  though  many  human  beings  must  in  fact 
be  thus  managed  ;  though  a  person  of  a  violent  or  a 
sullen  temper,  or  of  a  wrong  head,  or  of  outrageous 
vanity,  or  of  invincible  prejudices,  must  be  managed 
very  much  as  you  would  manage  a  lunatic  (being,  in 
fact,  removed  from  perfect  sanity  upon  these  points)  ; 
still,  they  must  never  be  allowed  to  discern  that  they 
are  being  managed  ;  or  the  charm  will  fail  at  once. 
I  confess,  for  myself,  that  I  am  no  believer  in  the 
efficacy  of  diplomacy  and  indirect  ways  in  dealing 
with  one's  fellow-creatures.  I  believe  that  a  manly, 
candid,  straightforward  course  is  always  the  best. 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.        135 

Treat  people  in  a  perfectly  frank  manner  :  with 
frankness  not  put  on,  but  real ;  and  you  will  be 
agreeable  to  most  of  those  to  whom  you  would  de 
sire  to  be  so. 

My  reader,  I  am  now  about  to  tell  you  of  certain 
sorts  of  human  beings,  who  appear  to  me  as  worthy 
of  being  ranked  among  disagreeable  people.  I  do  not 
pretend  to  give  you  an  exhaustive  catalogue  of  such. 
Doubtless  you  have  your  own  black  beasts,  your  own 
special  aversions,  which  have  for  you  a  disagreeable- 
ness  beyond  the  understanding  or  sympathy  of  others. 
Nor  do  I  make  quite  sure  that  you  will  agree  with  me 
in  all  the  views  which  I  am  going  to  set  forth.  It 
is  not  impossible  that  you  may  regard  as  very  nice 
people,  or  even  as  quite  fascinating  and  enthralling 
people,  certain  people  whom  I  regard  as  intensely 
disagreeable.  Let  me  begin  with  an  order  of  human 
beings,  as  to  which  I  do  not  expect  every  one  who 
reads  this  page  to  go  along  with  me  ;  though  I  do  not 
know  any  opinion  which  I  hold  more  resolutely  than 
that  which  I  am  about  to  express. 

We  all  understand  the  kind  of  thing  which  is  meant 
by  people  who  talk  of  Muscular  Christianity.  It  is 
certainly  a  noble  and  excellent  thing  to  make  people 
discern  that  a  good  Christian  need  not  be  a  muff 
(pardon  the  slang  term  :  there  is  no  other  that  would 
bring  out  my  meaning).  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  make 
it  plain  that  manliness  and  dash  may  coexist  with 
pure  morality  and  sincere  piety.  It  is  a  fine  thing  to 


136         CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

make  young  fellows  comprehend  that  there  is  nothing 
fine  and  manly  in  being  bad ;  and  nothing  unmanly  in 
being  good.-  And  in  this  view,  it  is  impossible  to 
value  too  highly  such  characters  and  such  biographies 
as  those  of  Hodson  of  Hodson's  Horse  and  of  Cap 
tain  Hedley  Vicars.  It  is  a  splendid  combination, 
pluck  and  daring  in  their  highest  degree,  with  an 
unaffected  and  earnest  regard  to  religion  and  religious 
duties:  in  short,  muscularity  with  Christianity.  A 
man  consists  of  body  and  soul :  and  both  would  be  in 
their  ideal  perfection,  if  the  soul  were  decidedly 
Christian,  and  the  body  decidedly  muscular. 

But  there  are  folk  whose  admiration  of  the  mus 
cularity  is  very  great ;  but  whose  regard  for  the 
Christianity  is  very  small.  They  are  captivated  by 
the  dash  and  glitter  of  physical  pluck  ;  they  are  quite 
content  to  accept  it  without  any  Christianity;  and 
even  without  the  most  ordinary  morality  and  decency. 
They  appear,  indeed,  to  think  that  the  grandeur 
of  the  character  is  increased,  by  the  combination  of 
thorough  blackguardism  with  high  physical  qualifica 
tions  ;  their  gospel,  in  short,  may  be  said  to  be  that  of 
Unchristian  Muscularity.  And  you  will  find  various 
books  in  which  the  hero  is  such  a  man  ;  and  while  the 
writer  of  the  book  frankly  admits  that  he  is  in  strict 
morality  an  extremely  bad  man,  the  writer  still  recalls 
his  doings  with  such  manifest  gusto  and  sympathy, 
and  takes  such  pains  to  make  him  agreeable  on  the 
whole,  and  relates  with  such  approval  the  admiration 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.        137 

which  empty-headed  idiots  express  for  him  when  he  t 
has  jumped  his  horse  over  some  very  perilous  fence 
or  thrashed  some  insolent  farmer,  that  it  is  painfully 
apparent  what  is  the  writer's  ideal  of  a  grand  and 
imposing  character.  You  know  the  kind  of  man  who 
is  the  hero  of  some  novels  :  the  muscular  blackguard  : 
and  you  remember  what  are  his  unfailing  charac 
teristics.  He  has  a  deep  chest.  He  has  huge  arms 
and  limbs  :  the  muscles  being  knotted.  He  has  an 
immense  moustache.  He  has  (God  knows  why)  a 
serene  contempt  for  ordinary  mortals.  He  is  always 
growing  black  with  fury,  and  bullying  weak  men. 
On  such  occasions,  his  lips  may  be  observed  to  be 
twisted  into  an  evil  sneer.  He  is  a  seducer  and 
liar :  he  has  ruined  various  women,  and  had  special 
facilities  for  becoming  acquainted  with  the  rottenness 
of  society  ;  and  occasionally  he  expresses,  in  language 
of  the  most  profane,  not  to  say  blasphemous  character, 
a  momentary  regret  for  having  done  so  much  harm  ; 
such  as  the  Devil  might  sentimentally  have  expressed 
when  he  had  succeeded  in  misleading  our  first  pa 
rents.  Of  course  he  never  pays  tradesmen  for  the 
things  with  which  they  supply  him.  He  can  drink  an 
enormous  quantity  of  wine  without  his  head  becoming 
affected.  He  looks  down  with  entire  disregard  on  the 
laws  of  God  and  man,  as  made  for  inferior  beings.  As 
for  any  worthy  moral  quality  ;  as  for  anything  beyond 
a  certain  picturesque  brutality  and  bull-dog  disregard 
of  danger;  not  a  trace  of  such  a  thing  can  be  found 
about  him. 


138         CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

We  all  know,  of  course,  that  such  a  person,  though 
not  uncommon  in  novels,  very  rarely  occurs  in  real 
life ;  and  if  he  occur  at  all,  it  is  with  his  ideal  perfec 
tions  very  much  toned  down.  In  actual  life,  such  a 
hero  would  become  known  in  the  Insolvent  Court,  and 
would  frequently  appear  before  the  police  magistrates. 
He  would  eventually  become  a  billiard-marker;  and 
might  ultimately  be  hanged,  with  general  approval. 
If  the  man,  in  his  undipped  proportions,  did  actually 
exist,  it  would  be  right  that  a  combination  should  be 
formed  to  wipe  him  out  of  creation.  He  should  be 
put  down  :  as  you  would  put  down  a  tiger  or  a  rattle 
snake  if  found  at  liberty  somewhere  in  the  Midland 
Counties.  A  more  hateful  character,  to  all  who 
possess  a  grain  of  moral  discernment,  could  not  even 
be  imagined.  And  it  need  not  be  shown,  that  the 
conception  of  such  a  character  is  worthy  only  of  a 
baby.  However  many  years  the  man  who  deliber 
ately  and  admiringly  delineates  such  a  person  may- 
have  lived  in  this  world,  intellectually  he  cannot  be 
more  than  about  seven  years  old.  And  none  but 
calves  the  most  immature  can  possibly  sympathize 
with  him.  Yet  if  there  were  not  many  silly  persons 
to  whom  such  a  character  is  agreeable,  such  a  charac 
ter  would  not  be  portrayed.  And  it  seems  certain 
that  a  single  exhibition  of  strength  or  daring  will 
to  some  minds  be  the  compendium  of  all  good  qual 
ities  :  or  (more  accurately  speaking)  the  equivalent 
for  them.  A  muscular  blackguard  clears  a  high 


CONCERNING   DISAGREEABLE   PEOPLE.         139 

fence ;  he  does  precisely  that,  neither  more  nor  less. 
And  upon  the  strength  of  that  single  achievement,  the 
servants  of  the  house  where  he  is  visiting  declare  that 
they  would  follow  him  over  the  world.  And  you 
may  find  various  young  women,  and  various  women 
who  wish  to  pass  for  young,  who  would  profess,  and 
perhaps  actually  feel,  a  like  enthusiasm  for  the  mus 
cular  blackguard.  I  confess  that  I  cannot  find  words 
strong  enough  to  express  my  contempt  and  abhorrence 
for  the  theory  of  life  and  character  which  is  assumed 
by  the  writers  who  describe  such  blackguards,  and  by 
the  fools  who  admire  them.  And  though  very  far 
from  saying  or  thinking  that  the  kind  of  human  being 
who  has  been  described,  is  no  worse  than  disagreeable, 
I  assert  with  entire  confidence  that  to  all  right-think 
ing  men,  he  is  more  disagreeable  than  almost  any 
other  kind  of  human  being.  And  I  do  not  know  any 
single  lesson  you  could  instil  into  a  youthful  mind, 
which  would  be  so  mischievous,  as  the  lesson  that  the 
muscular  blackguard  should  be  regarded  with  any 
other  feeling  than  that  of  pure  loathing  and  disgust. 
But  let  us  have  done  with  him.  I  cannot  think  of  the 
books  which  delineate  him,  and  ask  you  to  admire 
him,  without  indignation  more  bitter  than  I  wish  to 
feel  in  writing  such  a  page. 

And  passing  to  the  consideration  of  human  beings 
who  though  disagreeable,  are  good  in  the  main  ;  it 
may  be  laid  down,  as  a  general  principle,  that  any 
person,  however  good,  is  disagreeable,  from  whom 


140        CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

you  feel  it  a  relief  to  get  away.  We  have  all  known 
people,  thoroughly  estimable,  and  whom  you  could  not 
but  respect,  in  whose  presence  it  was  impossible  to 
feel  at  ease  ;  and  whose  absence  was  felt  as  the  with 
drawal  of  a  sense  of  constraint  of  the  most  oppressive 
kind.  And  this  vague,  uncomfortable  influence,  which 
breathes  from  some  men,  is  produced  in  various  ways. 
Sometimes  it  is  the  result  of  mere  stiffness  and 
awkwardness  of  manner  ;  and  there  are  men  whose 
stiffness  and  awkwardness  of  manner  are  such  as 
would  freeze  the  most  genial  and  silence  the  frank 
est.  Sometimes  it  arises  from  ignorance  of  social 
rules  and  proprieties  ;  sometimes  from  incapacity  to 
take,  or  even  to  comprehend,  a  joke.  Sometimes  it 
proceeds  from  a  pettedness  of  nature,  which  keeps 
you  ever  in  fear  that  offence  may  be  taken  at  the 
most  innocent  word  or  act.  Sometimes  it  comes  of 
a  preposterous  sense  of  his  own  standing  and  impor 
tance,  existing  in  a  man  whose  standing  and  impor 
tance  are  very  small.  It  is  quite  wonderful  what 
very  great  folk,  very  little  folk  will  sometimes  fancy 
themselves  to  be.  The  present  writer  has  had  little 
opportunity  of  conversing  with  men  of  great  rank  and 
power.  Yet  he  has  conversed  with  certain  men  of 
the  very  greatest ;  and  he  can  say  sincerely  that  he 
has  found  head-stewards  to  be  much  more  dignified 
men  than  dukes  ;  and  parsons  of  no  earthly  reputa 
tion,  and  of  very  limited  means,  to  be  infinitely  more 
stuck-up  than  archbishops.  And  though  at  first  the 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.        141 

airs  of  stuck-up  small  men  are  amazingly  ridiculous, 
and  so  rather  amusing ;  they  speedily  become  so  ir 
ritating,  that  the  men  who  exhibit  them  cannot  be 
classed  otherwise  than  with  the  disagreeable  of  the 
earth. 

Few  people  are  more  disagreeable  than  the  man 
who  (you  know)  is,  while  you  are  conversing  with 
him,  taking  a  mental  estimate  of  you  ;  more  particu 
larly  of  the  soundness  of  your  doctrinal  views  ;  with 
the  intention  of  showing  you  up  if  you  be  wrong,  and 
of  inventing  or  misrepresenting  something  to  your 
prejudice  if  you  be  right.  Whenever  you  find  any 
man  trying  (in  a  moral  sense)  to  trot  you  outv  and 
examine  your  paces,  and  pronounce  upon  your  gen 
eral  soundness  ;  there  are  two  courses  you  may  fol 
low.  The  one  is,  severely  to  shut  him  up  ;  and  stern 
ly  make  him  understand  that  you  don't  choose  to  be 
inspected  by  him.  Show  him  that  you  will  not  ex 
hibit  for  his  approval  your  particular  views  about  the 
Papacy,  or  about  Moral  Inability,  or  about  Pelagian- 
ism  or  the  Patripassian  heresy.  Indicate  that  you  will 
not  be  pumped  ;  and  you  may  convey,  in  a  kindly 
and  polite  way,  that  you  really  don't  care  a  rush  what 
he  thinks  of  you.  The  other  course  is,  with  deep 
solemnity  and  an  unchanged  countenance,  to  horrify 
your  inspector  by  avowing  the  most  fearful  views. 
Tell  him  that  on  long  reflection,  you  are  prepared  to 
advocate  the  revival  of  Cannibalism.  Say  that  prob 
ably  something  may  be  said  for  Polygamy.  Defend 


142        CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

the  Thugs,  and  say  something  for  Mumbo  Jumbo. 
End  by  saying  that  no  doubt  black  is  white,  and  twice 
ten  are  fifty.  Or  a  third  way  of  meeting  such  a  man, 
is  suddenly  to  turn  upon  him,  and  ask  him  to  give 
you  a  brief  and  lucid  account  of  the  views  he  is  con 
demning.  Ask  him  to  tell  you  what  are  the  theologi 
cal  peculiarities  of  Bunsen  ;  and  what  is  the  exact 
teaching  of  Mr.  Maurice.  He  does  not  know,  you 
may  be  tolerably  sure.  In  the  case  of  the  latter  em 
inent  man,  I  never  met  anybody  who  did  know  ;  and 
I  have  the  firmest  belief  that  he  does  not  know  him 
self.  I  was  told,  lately,  of  an  eminent  foreigner,  who 
came  to  Britain  to  promote  a  certain  public  end.  For 
its  promotion,  the  eminent  man  wished  to  conciliate 
the  sympathies  of  a  certain  small  class  of  religionists. 
He  procured  an  introduction  to  a  leading  man  among 
them  ;  a  good,  but  very  stupid  and  self-conceited  man. 
This  man  entered  into  talk  with  the  eminent  foreign 
er  ;  and  ranged  over  a  multitude  of  topics,  political 
and  religious.  And  at  an  hour's  end  the  foreigner 
was  astonished  by  the  good  but  stupid  man  suddenly 
exclaiming  :  "  Now,  sir,  I  have  been  reckoning  you 
up  ;  you  won't  do  ;  you  are  a  "  —  no  matter  what.  It 
was  something  that  had  nothing  earthly  to  do  with 
the  end  to  be  promoted.  The  religious  demagogue 
had  been  trotting  out  the  foreigner  ;  and  he  had  found 
him  unsound.  The  religious  demagogue  belonged  to 
a  petty  sect,  no  doubt ;  and  he  was  trying  for  his 
wretched  little  Shibboleth.  But  you  may  have  seen 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.        143 

the  like,  even  with  leading  men  in  National  Churches. 
And  I  have  seen  a  pert  little  \vhippersnapper  ask  a 
venerable  clergyman  what  he  thought  of  a  certain 
outrageous  lay-preacher  ;  and  receive  the  clergyman's 
reply  that  he  thought  most  unfavorably  of  many  of 
the  lay-preacher's  doings,  with  a  self-conceited  smirk 
that  seemed  to  say  to  the  venerable  clergyman,  "  I 
have  been  reckoning  you  up  ;  you  won't  do." 

People  whom  you  cannot  get  to  attend  to  you  when 
you  talk  to  them,  are  disagreeable.  There  are  men 
whom  you  feel  it  is  vain  to  speak  to  ;  whether  you  are 
mentioning  facts,  or  stating  arguments.  All  the  while 
you  are  speaking,  they  are  thinking  of  what  they  are 
themselves  to  say  next.  There  is  a  strong  current,  as 
it  were,  setting  outward  from  their  minds ;  and  it  pre 
vents  what  you  say  from  getting  in.  You  know,  if  a 
pipe  be  full  of  water,  running  strongly  one  way,  it  is 
vain  to  think  to  push  in  a  stream  running  the  other 
way.  You  cannot  get  at  their  attention.  You  cannot 
get  at  the  quick  of  their  mental  sensorium.  It  is  not 
the  dull  of  hearing  whom  it  is  hardest  to  get  to  hear : 
it  is  rather  the  man  who  is  roaring  out  himself,  and  so 
who  cannot  attend  to  anything  else.  Now  this  is  pro 
voking.  It  is  a  mortifying  indication  of  the  little  im 
portance  that  is  attached  to  what  we  are  saying  ;  and 
there  is  something  of  the  irritation  that  is  produced  in 
the  living  being  by  contending  with  the  passive  resist 
ance  of  inert  matter.  And  there  is  something  provok 
ing  even  in  the  outward  signs  that  the  mind  is  in  a 


144        CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE   PEOPLE. 

non-receptive  state.  You  remember  the  eye  that  is 
looking  beyond  you  ;  the  grin  that  is  not  at  anything 
funny  in  what  you  say  ;  the  occasional  inarticulate 
sounds  that  are  put  in  at  the  close  of  your  sentences, 
as  if  to  delude  you  with  a  show  of  attention.  The 
non-receptive  mind  is  occasionally  found  in  clever 
men  ;  but  the  men  who  exhibit  it  are  invariably  very 
conceited.  They  can  think  of  nothing  but  themselves. 
And  you  may  find  the  last-named  characteristic  strongly 
developed,  even  in  men  with  gray  hair,  who  ought  to 
have  learned  better  through  the  experience  of  a  pretty 
long  life.  There  are  other  minds  which  are  very  re 
ceptive.  They  seem  to  have  a  strong  power  of  suc 
tion.  They  take  in,  very  decidedly,  all  that  is  said  to 
them.  The  best  mind,  of  course,  is  that  which  com 
bines  both  characteristics  ;  which  is  strongly  receptive 
when  it  ought  to  be  receiving  ;  and  which  gives  out 
strongly  when  it  ought  to  be  giving  out.  The  power 
of  receptivity  is  greatly  increased  by  habit.  I  re 
member  feeling  awe-stricken  by  the  intense  attention 
with  which  a  very  great  Judge  was  wont,  in  ordinary 
conversation,  to  listen  to  all  that  was  said  to  him.  It 
was  the  habit  of  the  judgment-seat,  acquired  through 
many  years  of  listening,  with  every  faculty  awake,  to 
the  arguments  addressed  to  him.  But  when  you  be 
gan  to  make  some  statement  to  him,  it  was  positively 
alarming  to  see  him  look  you  full  in  the  face,  and  lis 
ten  with  inconceivable  fixedness  of  attention  to  all  you 
said.  You  could  not  help  feeling  that  really  the  small 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.         145 

remark  you  had  to  make  was  not  worth  that  great 
mind's  grasping  it  so  intently,  as  he  might  have  grasped 
an  argument  by  Follett.  The  mind  was  intensely  re 
ceptive,  when  it  was  receiving  at  all.  But  I  remem 
ber,  too,  that  when  the  great  Judge  began  to  speak, 
then  his  mind  was,  (so  to  speak,)  streaming  out ;  and 
he  was  particularly  impatient  of  inattention  or  inter 
ruption  ;  and  particularly  non-receptive  of  anything 
that  might  be  suggested  to  him. 

It  is  extremely  disagreeable  when  a  vulgar  fellow, 
whom  you  hardly  know,  addresses  you  by  your  sur 
name  with  great  familiarity  of  manner.  And  such  a 
person  will  take  no  hint  that  he  is  disagreeable ;  how 
ever  stiff,  and  however  formally  polite,  you  may  take 
pains  to  be  to  him.  It  is  disagreeable  when  persons, 
with  whom  you  have  no  desire  to  be  on  terms  of  inti 
macy,  persist  in  putting  many  questions  to  you  as  to 
your  private  concerns ;  such  as  your  annual  income 
and  expenditure,  and  the  like.  No  doubt,  it  is  both 
pleasant  and  profitable  for  people  who  are  not  rich,  to 
compare  notes  on  these  matters  with  some  frank  and 
hearty  friend,  whose  means  and  outgoings  are  much 
the  same  as  their  own.  I  do  not  think  of  such  a  case  ; 
but  of  the  prying  curiosity  of  persons  who  have  no 
right  to  pry,  and  who,  very  generally,  while  diligently 
prying  into  your  affairs,  take  special  care  not  to  take 
you  into  their  confidence.  Such  people,  too,  while 
making  a  pretence  of  revealing  to  you  all  their  secrets, 
will  often  tell  a  very  small  portion  of  them,  and  make 
10 


146         CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

various  statements  which  you  at  the  time  are  quite 
aware  are  not  true.  There  are  not  many  things  more 
disagreeable  than  a  very  stupid  and  ill-set  old  woman, 
who,  quite  unaware  what  her  opinion  is  worth,  ex 
presses  it  with  entire  confidence  upon  many  subjects 
of  which  she  knows  nothing  whatever,  and  as  to  which 
she  is  wholly  incapable  of  judging.  And  the  self- 
satisfied  and  confident  air  with  which  she  settles  the 
most  difficult  questions,  and  pronounces  unfavorable 
judgment  upon  people  ten  thousand  times  wiser  and 
better  than  herself,  is  an  insufferably  irritating  phe 
nomenon.  It  is  a  singular  fact,  that  the  people  I  have 
in  view  invariably  combine  extreme  ugliness  with 
spitefulness  and  self-conceit.  Such  a  person  will 
make  particular  inquiries  of  you  as  to  some  near  rel 
ative  of  your  own  ;  and  will  add,  with  a  malicious  and 
horribly  ugly  expression  of  face,  that  she  is  glad  to 
hear  how  very  much  improved  your  relative  now  is. 
She  will  repeat  the  sentence  several  times,  laying 
great  emphasis  and  significance  upon  the  very  much 
improved.  Of  course,  the  notion  conveyed  to  any 
stranger  who  may  be  present,  is  that  your  relative 
must  in  former  days  have  been  an  extremely  bad 
fellow.  The  fact  probably  is,  that  he  has  always,  man 
and  boy,  been  particularly  well-behaved ;  and  that 
really  you  were  not  aware  that  he  needed  any  special 
improvement ;  save  indeed  in  the  sense  that  every 
human  being  might  be  and  ought  to  be  a  great  deal 
better  than  he  is. 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.        147 

People  who  are  always  vaporing  about  .their  own 
importance,  and  the  value  of  their  own  possessions, 
are  disagreeable.  We  all  know  such  people  ;  and 
they  are  made  more  irritating  by  the  fact,  that  their 
boasting  is  almost  invariably  absurd  and  false.  I  do 
not  mean  ethically  false,  but  logically  false.  For 
doubtless,  in  many  cases,  human  beings  honestly  think 
themselves  and  their  possessions  as  much  better  than 
other  men  and  their  possessions  ;  as  they  say  they  do. 
If  thirty  families  compose  the  best  society  of  a  little 
country  town,  you  may  be  sure  that  each  of  the  thirty 
families  in  its  secret  soul  looks  down  upon  the  other 
twenty-nine  ;  and  fancies  that  it  stands  on  a  totally 
different  level.  And  it  is  a  kind  arrangement  of 
Providence,  that  a  man's  own  children,  horses,  house, 
and  other  possessions,  are  so  much  more  interesting  to 
himself  than  are  the  children,  horses,  and  houses  of 
other  men,  that  he  can  readily  persuade  himself  that 
they  are  as  much  better  in  fact,  as  they  are  more 
interesting  to  his  personal  feeling.  But  it  is  provok 
ing  when  a  man  is  always  obtruding  on  you  how  high 
ly  he  estimates  his  own  belongings,  and  how  much 
better  than  yours  he  thinks  them,  even  when  this  is 
done  in  all  honesty  and  simplicity  ;  and  it  is  infuriat 
ing  when  a  man  keeps  constantly  telling  you  things 
which  he  knows  are  not  true,  as  to  the  preciousness 
and  excellence  of  the  gifts  with  which  fortune  has  en 
dowed  him.  You  feel  angry  when  a  man,  who  has 
lately  bought  a  house,  one  in  a  square  containing  fifty, 


148        CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

all  as  nearly  as  possible  alike,  tells  you  with  an  air  of 
confidence  that  he  has  got  the  finest  house  in  Scot 
land,  or  in  England,  as  the  case  may  be.  You  are  ir 
ritated  by  the  man  who  on  all  occasions  tells  you  that 
he  drives  in  his  mail-phaeton  "  five  hundred  pounds' 
worth  of  horseflesh."  You  are  well  aware  that  he  did 
not  pay  a  quarter  of  that  sum  for  the  animals  in  ques 
tion  ;  and  you  assume  as  certain  that  the  dealer  did 
not  give  him  that  pair  of  horses  for  less  than  they 
were  worth.  It  is  somewhat  irritating  when  a  man, 
not  remarkable  in  any  way,  begins  to  tell  you  that  he 
can  hardly  go  to  any  part  of  the  world  without  being 
recognized  by  some  one  who  remembers  his  striking 
aspect,  or  is  familiar  with  his  famous  name.  "  It  costs 
me  three  hundred  a  year,  having  that  picture  to  look 
at,"  said  Mr.  Windbag,  pointing  to  a  picture  banging  on 
a  wall  in  his  library.  He  goes  on  to  explain  that  he 
refused  six  thousand  pounds  for  that  picture ;  which  at 
five  per  cent,  would  yield  the  annual  income  named. 
You  repeat  Windbag's  statement  to  an  eminent  artist. 
The  artist  knows  the  picture.  He  looks  at  you  fix 
edly  ;  and  for  all  comment  on  Windbag's  story,  says 
(he  is  a  Scotchman)  HOOT  TOOT.  But  the  disposition 
to  vapor  is  deep  set  in  human  nature.  There  are  not 
very  many  men  or  women  whom  I  would  trust,  to  give 
an  accurate  account  of  their  family,  dwelling,  influ 
ence,  and  general  position,  to  people  a  thousand  miles 
from  home,  who  were  not  likely  ever  to  be  able  to 
verify  the  picture  drawn. 


CONCERNING   DISAGREEABLE   PEOPLE.         149 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  mention  among  disagree 
able  people,  those  individuals  who  take  pleasure  in 
telling  you  that  you  are  looking  ill ;  that  you  are 
falling  off,  physically  or  mentally.  "  Surely  you  have 
lost  some  of  your  teeth  since  I  saw  you  last,"  said  a 
good  man  to  a  man  of  seventy-five  years  :  "  I  cannot 
make  out  a  word  you  say,  you  speak  so  indistinctly." 
And  so  obtuse,  and  so  thoroughly  devoid  of  gentle 
manly  feeling,  was  that  good  man,  that  when  admon 
ished  that  he  ought  not  to  speak  in  that  fashion  to  a 
man  in  advanced  years,  he  could  not  for  his  life  see 
that  he  had  done  anything  unkind  or  unmannerly.  "I 
dare  say  you  are  wearied  wi'  preachin'  to-day ;  you 
see  you're  gettin'  frail  noo,"  said  a  Scotch  elder,  in  my 
hearing,  to  a  worthy  clergyman.  Seldom  has  it  cost 
me  a  greater  effort  than  it  did  to  refrain  from  turning 
to  the  elder,  and  saying  with  candor,  "  What  a  boor 
and  what  a  fool  you  must  be,  to  say  that! "  It  was  as 
well  I  did  not ;  the  boor  would  not  have  known  what 
I  meant.  He  would  not  have  known  the  provocation 
which  led  me  to  give  him  my  true  opinion  of  him. 
"  How  very  bald  you  are  getting,"  said  a  really  good- 
natured  man,  to  a  friend  he  was  meeting  for  the  first 
time  in  several  years.  Such  remarks  are  for  the  most 
part  made  by  men  who,  in  good  faith,  have  not  the 
least  idea  that  they  are  making  themselves  disagree 
able.  There  is  no  malicious  intention.  It  is  a  matter 
of  pure  obtuseness,  stupidity,  selfishness,  and  vulgar 
ity.  But  an  obtuse,  stupid,  selfish,  and  vulgar  person 


150        CONCERNING   DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

is  disagreeable.     And   your  right  course  will  be,  to 
carefully  avoid  all  intercourse  with  such  a  person. 

But  besides  people  who  blunder  into  saying  un 
pleasant  things,  there  are  a  few  who  do  so  of  set  in 
tention.  And  such  people  ought  to  be  cracked.  They 
can  do  a  great  deal  of  harm ;  inflict  a  great  deal  of 
suffering.  I  believe  that  human  beings  in  general 
are  more  miserable  than  you  think.  They  are  very 
anxious  ;  very  careworn  ;  stung  by  a  host  of  worries ; 
a  good  deal  disappointed,  in  many  ways.  And  in  the 
case  of  many  people,  worthy  and  able,  there  is  a  very 
low  estimate  of  themselves  and  their  abilities  ;  and  a 
sad  tendency  to  depressed  spirits  and  gloomy  views. 
And  while  a  kind  word  said  to  such  is  a  real  benefit, 
and  a  great  lightener  of  the  heart ;  an  ingenious 
malignant  may  suggest  to  such,  things  which  are  as  a 
stunning  blow,  and  as  an  added  load  on  the  weary 
frame  and  mind.  I  have  seen,  with  burning  indigna 
tion,  a  malignant  beast  (I  mean  man)  playing  upon 
that  tendency  to  a  terrible  apprehensiveness  which  is 
born  with  many  men.  I  have  seen  the  beast  vaguely 
suggest  evil  to  the  nervous  and  apprehensive  man. 
"  This  cannot  end  here  ;  "  "  I  shall  take  my  own  meas 
ures  now;"  "A  higher  authority  shall  decide  between 
us ;  "  I  have  heard  the  beast  say  ;  and  then  go  away. 
Of  course  I  knew  well  that  the  beast  could  and  would 
do  nothing  ;  and  I  hastened  to  say  so  to  the  appre 
hensive  man.  But  I  knew  that  the  poor  fellow  would 
go  away  home ;  and  brood  over  the  beast's  ominous 


CONCERNING   DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.        151 

threats  ;  and  imagine  a  hundred  terrible  contingencies ; 
and  work  himself  into  a  fever  of  anxiety  and  alarm. 
And  it  is  because  I  know  that  the  vague  threaterier 
counted  on  all  that ;  and  wished  it ;  and  enjoyed  the 
thought  of  the  slow  torment  he  was  causing  ;  that  I 
choose  to  call  him  a  beast  rather  than  a  man.  In 
deed,  there  is  an  order  of  beings,  worse  than  beasts, 
to  which  that  being  should  rather  be  referred.  You 
have  said  or  done  something,  which  has  given  offence 
to  certain  of  your  neighbors.  Mr.  Snarling  comes  and 
gives  you  a  full  and  particular  account  of  the  indigna 
tion  they  feel,  and  of  their  plans  for  vengeance.  Mr. 
Snarling  is  happy  to  see  you  look  somewhat  annoyed ; 
and  he  kindly  says,  "  Oh,  never  mind  ;  this  will  blow 
over,  as  other  things  you  have  said  and  done  have  blown 
over"  Thus  he  vaguely  suggests  that  you  have  given 
great  offence  on  many  occasions,  and  made  many  bit 
ter  enemies.  He  adds,  in  a  musing  voice,  "  Yes,  as 
MANY  other  things  have  blown  over."  Turn  the  in 
dividual  out ;  and  cut  his  acquaintance.  It  would  be 
better  to  have  a  upas-tree  in  your  neighborhood.  Of 
all  disagreeable  men,  a  man  with  his  tendencies  is  the 
most  disagreeable.  The  bitterest  and  longest  lasting 
east  wind,  acts  less  perniciously  on  body  and  soul,  than 
does  the  society  of  Mr.  Snarling. 

Suspicious  people  are  disagreeable,  also  people  who 
are  always  taking  the  pet.  Indeed,  suspiciousness  and 
pettedness  generally  go  together.  There  are  many 
men  and  women  who  are  always  imagining  that  some 


152        CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

insult  is  designed  by  the  most  innocent  words  and  do 
ings  of  those  around  them ;  and  always  suspecting  that 
some  evil  intention  against  their  peace  is  cherished 
by  some  one  or  other.  It  is  most  irritating  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  such  impracticable  and  silly  mor 
tals.  But  it  is  a  delightful  thing  to  work  along  with 
a  man  who  never  takes  offence  :  a  frank,  manly  man. 
who  gives  credit  to  others  for  the  same  generosity  of 
nature  which  he  feels  within  himself;  and  who  if  he 
thinks  he  has  reason  to  complain,  speaks  out  his  mind 
and  has  things  cleared  up  at  once.  A  disagreeable 
person  is  he  who  frequently  sends  letters  to  you  with 
out  paying  the  postage  ;  leaving  you  to  pay  twopence 
for  each  penny  which  he  has  thus  saved.  The  loss  of 
twopence  is  no  great  matter ;  but  there  is  something 
irritating  in  the  feeling  that  your  correspondent  has 
deliberately  resolved  that  he  would  save  his  penny  at 
the  cost  of  your  twopence.  There  is  a  man,  describ 
ing  himself  as  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England, 
(I  cannot  think  he  is  one,)  who  occasionally  sends  me 
an  abusive  anonymous  letter,  and  who  invariably  sends 
his  letters  unpaid.  I  do  not  mind  about  the  man's 
abuse,  but  I  confess  I  grudge  my  twopence.  I  have 
observed,  too,  that  the  people  who  send  letters  unpaid 
do  so  habitually.  I  have  'known  the  same  individual 
send  six  successive  letters  unpaid.  And  it  is  probably 
within  the  experience  of  most  of  my  readers,  that  out 
of  (say)  a  hundred  correspondents,  ninety-nine  inva 
riably  pay  their  letters  properly  ;  while  time  after  time 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.         153 

the  hundredth  sends  his  with  the  abominable  big  2 
stamped  upon  it,  and  your  servant  walks  in  and 
worries  you  by  the  old  statement  that  the  postman  is 
waiting.  Let  me  advise  every  reader  to  do  what  I 
intend  doing  for  the  future :  to  wit,  to  refuse  to  receive 
any  unpaid  letter.  You  may  be  quite  sure  that  by  so 
doing  you  will  not  lose  any  letter  that  is  worth  having. 
A  class  of  people,  very  closely  analogous  to  that  of 
the  people  who  do  not  pay  their  letters  is  that  of  such 
as  are  constantly  borrowing  small  sums  from  their 
friends,  which  they  never  restore.  If  you  should  ever 
be  thrown  into  the  society  of  such,  your  right  course 
will  be  to  take  care  to  have  no  money  in  your  pocket. 
People  are  disagreeable,  who  are  given  to  talking  of 
the  badness  of  their  servants,  the  undutifulness  of  their 
children,  the  smokiness  of  their  chimneys,  and  the  de 
ficiency  of  their  digestive  organs.  And  though  with 
a  true  and  close  friend,  it  is  a  great  relief,  and  a 
special  tie,  to  have  spoken  out  your  heart  about  your 
burdens  and  sorrows,  it  is  expedient,  in  conversation 
with  ordinary  acquaintances,  to  keep  these  to  yourself. 
It  must  be  admitted,  with  great  regret,  that  people 
who  make  a  considerable  profession  of  religion  have 
succeeded  in  making  themselves  more  thoroughly  dis 
agreeable  than  almost  any  other  human  beings  have 
ever  made  themselves.  You  will  find  people,  who  not 
merely  claim  to  be  pious  and  Christian  people,  but  to  be 
very  much  more  pious  and  Christian  than  others,  who 
are  extremely  uncharitable,  unamiable,  repulsive,  stu- 


154        CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

pid,  and  narrow-minded  ;  and  intensely  opinionated  and 
self-satisfied.  We  know,  from  a  very  high  authority,  that 
a  Christian  ought  to  be  an  epistle  in  commendation  of 
the  blessed  faith  he  holds.  But  it  is  beyond  question, 
that  many  people  who  profess  to  be  Christians,  are  like 
grim  Gorgon's  heads  warning  people  off  from  having 
anything  to  do  with  Christianity.  Why  should  a 
middle-aged  clergyman  walk  about  the  streets  with  a 
sullen  and  malignant  scowl  always  on  his  face,  which 
at  the  best  would  be  a  very  ugly  one  ?  Why  should 
another  walk  with  his  nose  in  the  air,  and  his  eyes 
rolled  up  till  they  seem  likely  to  roll  out?  And  why 
should  a  third  be  always  dabbled  over  with  a  clammy 
perspiration,  and  prolong  all  his  vowels  to  twice  the 
usual  length  ?  It  is  indeed  a  most  woful  thing,  that  peo 
ple  who  evince  a  spirit  in  every  respect  the  direct  con 
trary  of  that  of  our  Blessed  Redeemer,  should  fancy 
that  they  are  Christians  of  singular  attainments  ;  and  it 
is  more  woful  still,  that  many  young  people  should  be 
scared  away  into  irreligion  or  unbelief  by  the  wretch 
ed  delusion  that  these  creatures,  wickedly  caricaturing 
Christianity,  are  fairly  representing  it.  I  have  be 
held  more  deliberate  malice,  more  lying  and  cheating, 
more  backbiting  and  slandering,  denser  stupidity,  and 
greater  self-sufficiency,  among  bad-hearted  and  wrong- 
headed  religionists,  than  among  any  other  order  of  hu 
man  beings.  I  have  known  more  malignity  and  slan 
der  conveyed  in  the  form  of  a  prayer,  than  should  have 
consigned  any  ordinary  libeller  to  the  pillory.  I  have 


CONCERNING   DISAGREEABLE   PEOPLE.        155 

known  a  person  who  made  evening  prayer  a  means  of 
infuriating  and  stabbing  the  servants,  under  the  pretext 
of  confessing  their  sins.  ';  Thou  knowest,  Lord,  how 
my  servants  have  been  occupied  this  day  ; "  with  these 
words  did  the  blasphemous  mockery  of  prayer  begin 
one  Sunday  evening  in  a  house  I  could  easily  indicate. 
And  then  the  man,  under  the  pretext  of  addressing 
the  Almighty,  raked  up  all  the  misdoings  of  the  ser 
vants  (they  being  present  of  course),  in  a  fashion 
which,  if  he  had  ventured  on  it  at  any  other  time, 
would  probably  have  led  some  of  them  to  assault  him. 
"  I  went  to  Edinburgh,"  said  a  Highland  elder,  "  and 
was  there  a  Sabbath.  It  was  an  awfu'  sight  ?  There, 
on  the  Sabbath-day,  you  would  see  people  walking 
along  the  street,  smiling  AS  IF  THEY  WERE  PERFECT 
LY  HAPPY!"  There  was  the  gravamen  of  the  poor 
Highlander's  charge.  To  think  of  people  being  or 
looking  happy  on  the  Lord's  d'<\y  !  And  indeed  to 
think  of  a  Christian  man  ever  venturing  to  be  happy 
at  all !  "  Yes,  this  parish  was  highly  favored  in  the 
days  of  Mr.  Smith  and  Mr.  Brown,"  said  a  spiteful 
and  venomous  old  woman,  —  with  a  glance  of  deadly 
malice  at  a  young  lad  who  was  present.  That  young 
lad  was  the  son  of  the  clergyman  of  the  parish,  —  one 
of  the  most  diligent  and  exemplary  clergymen  in 
Britain.  Mr.  Smith  and  Mr.  Brown  were  the  clergy 
men  who  preceded  him.  And  the  spiteful  old  woman 
adopted  this  means  of  sticking  a  pin  into  the  young 
lad,  conveying  the  idea  that  there  was  a  sad  falling  off 


156        CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE   PEOPLE. 

now.  I  saw  and  heard  her,  my  reader.  Now  when 
an  ordinary  spiteful  person  says  a  malicious  thing, 
being  quite  aware  that  she  is  saying  a  malicious  thing, 
and  that  her  motive  is  pure  malice,  you  are  disgusted. 
But  when  a  spiteful  person  says  a  malicious  thing,  all 
the  while  fancying  herself  a  very  pious  person,  and 
fancying  that  in  gratifying  her  spite,  she  is  acting  from 
Christian  principle,  I  say  the  sight  is  to  me  one  of  the 
most  disgusting,  perplexing,  and  miserable,  that  ever 
human  eye  beheld.  I  have  no  fear  of  the  attacks  of 
enemies  on  the  blessed  Faith  in  which  I  live,  arid  hope 
to  die.  But  it  is  dismal,  to  see  how  our  holy  religion 
is  misrepresented  before  the  world,  by  the  vile  impos 
tors  who  pretend  to  be  its  friends. 

Among  the  disagreeable  people  who  make  a  pro 
fession  of  religion,  probably  many  are  purely  hypo 
crites.  But  we  willingly  believe  that  there  are  peo 
ple,  in  whom  Christianity  appears  in  a  wretchedly 
stunted  and  distorted  form,  who  yet  are  right  at  the 
root.  It  does  not  follow  that  a  man  is  a  Christian, 
because  he  turns  up  his  eyes  and  drawls  out  his  words  ; 
and  when  asked  to  say  grace,  offers  a  prayer  of  twenty 
minutes'  duration.  But  again,  it  does  not  follow  that 
he  is  not  a  Christian,  though  he  may  do  all  these 
things.  The  bitter  sectary,  who  distinctly  says  that 
a  humble,  pious  man,  just  dead,  has  **  gone  to  hell," 
because  he  died  in  the  bosom  of  the  Church,  —  how 
ever  abhorrent  that  sectary  may  be  in  some  respects,  — 
may  be,  in  the  main,  within  the  Good  Shepherd's  fold, 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE   PEOPLE.        157 

wherein  he  fancies  there  are  very  few  but  himself. 
The  dissenting  teacher  who  declared  from  his  pulpit 
that  the  parish  clergyman  (newly  come,  and  an  entire 
stranger  to  him)  was  "  a  servant  of  Satan,"  may  possi 
bly  have  been  a  good  man,  after  all.  Grievous  defects 
ynd  errors  may  exist  in  a  Christian  character,  which 
is  a  Christian  character  still.  And  the  Christian,  hor 
ribly  disagreeable  and  repulsive  now,  will  some  day, 
we  trust,  have  all  that  purged  away.  But  I  do  not 
hesitate  to  say,  that  any  Christian,  by  so  far  as  he  is 
disagreeable  and  repulsive,  deviates  from  the  right 
thing.  Oh,  my  reader,  when  my  heart  is  sometimes 
sore  through  what  I  see  of  disagreeable  traits  in  Chris 
tian  character,  what  a  blessed  relief  there  is  in  turning 
to  the  simple  pages,  and  seeing  for  the  thousandth 
time  The  True  Christian  Character,  —  so  different ! 
Yes,  thank  God,  we  know  where  to  look,  to  find  what 
every  pious  man  should  be  humbly  aiming  to  be  ;  and 
when  we  see  That  Face,  and  hear  That  Voice,  there 
is  something  that  soothes  and  cheers  among  the 
wretched  imperfections  (in  one's  self  as  in  others),  of 
the  present :  —  something  that  warms  the  heart,  and 
that  brings  a  man  to  his  knees  ! 

The  present  writer  has  a  relative,  who  is  Professor 
of  Theology  in  a  certain  famous  University.  With 
that  theologian  I  recently  had  a  conversation  on  the 
matter  of  which  we  have  just  been  thinking.  The 
Professor  lamented  bitterly  the  unchristian  features 
of  character  which  may  be  found  in  many  people 


158        CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE. 

making  a  great  parade  of  their  Christianity.  He 
mentioned  various  facts,  which  had  recently  corne  to 
his  own  knowledge  ;  which  would  sustain  stronger 
expressions  of  opinion  than  any  which  I  have  given. 
But  he  went  on  to  say,  that  it  would  be  a  sad  thing 
if  no  fools  could  get  to  heaven  ;  nor  any  unamiable, 
narrow-minded,  sour,  and  stupid  people.  Now,  said 
he,  with  great  force  of  reason,  religion  does  not  alter 
idiosyncrasy.  When  a  fool  becomes  a  Christian,  he 
will  be  a  foolish  Christian.  A  narrow-minded  man 
will  be  a  narrow-minded  Christian  ;  a  stupid  man,  a 
stupid  Christian.  And  though  a  malignant  man  will 
have  his  malignity  much  diminished,  it  by  no  means 
follows  that  it  will  be  completely  rooted  out.  "  When 
I  would  do  good,  evil  is  present  with  me."  "  I  find 
a  law  in  my  members,  warring  against  the  law  of  my 
mind  ;  and  enslaving  me  to  the  law  of  sin."  But  you 
are  not  to  blame  Christianity  for  the  stupidity  and 
unamiability  of  Christians.  If  they  be  disagreeable, 
it  is  not  the  measure  of  true  religion  they  have  got, 
that  makes  them  so.  In  so  far  as  they  are  disagree 
able,  they  depart  from  the  standard.  You  know,  you 
may  make  water  sweet  or  sour ;  you  may  make  it  red, 
blue,  black ;  and  it  will  be  water  still,  though  its  purity 
and  pleasantness  are  much  interfered  with.  In  like 
manner,  Christianity  may  coexist  with  a  good  deal  of 
acid,  —  with  a  great  many  features  of  character  very 
inconsistent  with  itself.  The  cup  of  fair  water  may 
have  a  bottle  of  ink  emptied  into  it,  or  a  little  verjuice, 


CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE          159 

or  even  a  little  strychnine.  And  yet,  though  sadly 
deteriorated,  though  hopelessly  disguised,  the  fair  water 
is  there  ;  and  not  entirely  neutralized. 

And  it  is  worth  remarking,  that  you  will  find  many 
persons  who  are  very  charitable  to  blackguards,  but 
who  have  no  charity  for  the  weaknesses  of  really  good 
people.  They  will  hunt  out  the  act  of  thoughtless 
liberality,  done  by  the  scapegrace  who  broke  his 
mother's  heart,  and  squandered  his  poor  sisters'  little 
portions  ;  they  will  make  much  of  that  liberal  act,  — 
such  an  act  as  tossing  to  some  poor  Magdalen  a  purse, 
filled  with  money  which  was  probably  not  his  own  ; 
and  they  will  insist  that  there  is  hope  for  the  black 
guard  yet.  But  these  persons  will  tightly  shut  their 
eyes  against  a  great  many  substantially  good  deeds, 
done  by  a  man  who  thinks  Prelacy  the  abomination 
of  desolation,  or  who  thinks  that  stained  glass  and  an 
organ  are  sinful.  I  grant  you  that  there  is  a  certain 
fairness  in  trying  the  blackguard  and  the  religionist  by 
different  standards.  Where  the  pretension  is  higher, 
the  test  may  justly  be  more  severe.  But  I  say  it  is 
unfair  to  puzzle  out  with  diligence  the  one  or  two 
good  things  in  the  character  of  a  reckless  scamp,  and 
to  refuse  moderate  attention  to  the  many  good  points 
about  a  weak,  narrow-minded,  and  uncharitable  good 
person.  I  ask  for  charity  in  the  estimating  of  all 
human  characters,  — •  even  in  estimating  the  character 
of  the  man  who  would  show  no  charity  to  another.  I 
confess  freely  that  in  the  last-named  case,  the  exercise 
of  charity  is  extremely  difficult. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


OUTSIDE. 


HERE  is  a  tremendous  difference  between 
being  Inside  and  being  Outside.  The 
distance  in  space  may  be  very  small ;  but 
the  distance  in  feeling  is  vast.  Some 
times  the  outside  is  the  better  place,  sometimes  the 
inside  ;  but  I  have  always  thought  that  this  is  a  case 
in  which  there  is  an  interruption  of  nature's  general 
law  of  gradation.  Other  differences  are  shaded  off 
into  each  other.  Youth  passes  imperceptibly  into 
age  ;  the  evening  light  melts  gradually  into  darkness  ; 
and  you  may  find  some  mineral  production  to  mark 
every  step  in  the  progress  from  lava  to  granite,  which 
(as  you  probably  do  not  know)  are  in  their  elements 
the  same  thing.  But  it  is  a  positive  and  striking  fact, 
that  you  are  outside  or  inside.  There  is  no  gradation 
nor  shading  off  between  the  two.  1  am  sitting  here 
on  a  green  knoll  ;  the  ground  slopes  away  steeply  on 
three  sides,  down  to  a  little  river.  The  grass  is  very 
rich  and  fresh  ;  and  it  is  lighted  up  with  innumerable 
buttercups  and  daisies.  You  can  see  that  the  old 


OUTSIDE.  161 

monks,  who  used  to  worship  in  that  lovely  Gothic 
chapel,  brought  these  acres  under  cultivation  in  days 
when  what  is  now  the  fertile  country  round,  was  a 
desolate  waste.  And  the  warm  air  of  one  of  the  last 
days  of  May  is  just  stirring  the  thick  trees  around. 
But  all  this  is  because  I  am  outside.  There  is  an  in 
side  hard  by  where  things  are  very  different.  Down 
below  this  green  knoll,  but  on  a  rock  high  above  the 
little  river,  you  may  see  the  ruins  of  an  old  feudal 
castle.  Last  night  I  passed  over  the  narrow  bridge 
that  leads  to  the  rock  on  which  the  ruins  stand;  and  a 
young  fellow,  moderately  versed  in  its  history,  showed 
me  all  that  remains  of  the  castle.  You  go  away 
down,  stair  after  stair,  and  reach  successive  ranges 
of  chambers,  all  of  stone,  formerly  guard-rooms  and 
kitchens.  These  chambers  are  sufficiently  cheerful  ; 
for  though  on  one  side  far  underground,  on  the  other 
side  they  are  high  above  the  glen  and  the  river.  The 
setting  sun  was  streaming  into  their  windows  ;  and 
the  fresh  green  of  beeches  and  pines  looked  over  from 
the  other  side  of  the  narrow  gorge.  But  now  the 
young  fellow  mentioned  that  the  dungeons  were  still 
far  beneath  ;  and  in  a  pitch-dark  passage,  he  made 
me  feel  a  small  doorway,  black  as  night,  going  down 
to  the  horrible  dark  recesses  below,  to  which  not  a 
ray  of  light  was  admitted,  and  to  which  not  a  breath 
of  the  fragrant  spring  air  without  could  ever  come. 
You  could  not  but  think  what  it  must  have  been,  long 
ago,  to  be  dragged  through  those  dark  passages,  and 
11 


162  OUTSIDE. 

violently  thrust  through  that  narrow  door,  and  down 
to  the  black  abyss.  -You  felt  how  thoroughly  hope 
less  escape  would  be,  —  how  entirely  you  were  at  the 
mercy  of  the  people  who  put  you  there.  And  coming 
up  from  those  dungeons,  climbing  the  successive  stairs, 
you  reached  the  daylight  again  ;  and  descending  the 
steep  walks  of  the  garden,  you  reached  a  place  just 
outside  the  dungeons  ;  which  on  this  side  are  far 
above  ground.  There  was  the  pleasant  summer  sun 
set  ;  there  were  the  milk-white  hawthorns  and  the 
fragrant  lilacs  ;  there  was  an  apple-tree,  whose  pink 
and  white  blossoms  were  gently  swayed  by  the  warm 
wind  against  the  outside  of  the  dungeon- wall.  And, 
almost  hidden  by  green  leaves,  you  could  hear  the 
stream  below,  whose  waters  (it  is  to  be  confessed) 
had  suffered  somewhat  from  the  presence,  a  few  miles 
above,  of  various  paper-mills.  And  here,  I  thought, 
were  the  outside  and  the  inside ;  only  six  feet  of  wall 
between  ;  but  in  all  their  aspect,  and  above  all  in  the 
feeling  of  the  crushed  captive  within,  a  thousand  miles 
apart.  Of  course,  there  wras  no  captive  there  now  ; 
but  all  this  scene  was  the  same  in  the  days  when 
those  dungeons  were  fully  inhabited.  And  doubtless, 
many  of  those  who  were  then  thrust  into  those  dismal 
places  liked  them  just  as  little  as  you  and  I  should  ; 
and  were  missed  and  needed  by  some  outside  just  as 
much  as  you  or  I  could  be. 

In  this  case,  you  observe,  it  is  better  to  be  outside 
than  to  be  inside.  But  there  are  many  cases  in  which 
it  is  otherwise. 


OUTSIDE.  163 

You  may  be  outside  physically ;  as  you  would  be 
if  you  were  to  fall,  unnoticed,  and  in  the  night,  over 
board  from  a  ship,  —  and  it  to  pass  on,  and  leave  you 
to  perish  in  the  black  waters.  Many  human  beings 
have  done  that ;  an  old  school-fellow  of  mine  did.  Jt 
must  be  a  dreadful  thing.  It  would  be  better,  in  such 
a  case,  not  to  be  able  to  swim  ;  for  then  the  suffering 
would  be  the  sooner  over  ;  and  the  mind  would  be  in 
such  a  bewildered,  hurried  state,  that  there  would  be 
less  room  for  the  agony  of  thought.  But  in  warmer 
seas,  where  the  chill  of  the  water  would  not  speedily 
benumb  into  loss  of  power  and  consciousness,  the 
single  hour  through  which,  as  Cowper  tells  us,  an 
unaided  swimmer  might  sustain  himself  in  life,  would 
seem  like  a  lifetime.  I  know  a  man  who  supported 
himself  for  a  whole  night,  by  the  help  of  two  oars, 
after  his  vessel  had  gone  down  in  the  Indian  Ocean. 
His  wife  and  child  went  with  it ;  and  after  desperate 
efforts  to  save  them,  he  found  himself  in  the  water, 
clinging  to  his  two  oars.  Three  times,  through  that 
awful  night,  he  cast  the  oars  away  from  him,  and 
dived  deep  under  the  surface,  hoping  that  he  might 
never  come  up  ;  but  the  instinctive  clinging  to  life 
was  too  strong  ;  and  each  time  he  faintly  struggled 
back  to  his  oars  again. 

Then  you  may  be  outside  morally.  You  may 
somehow  have  turned  out  of  the  track  in  which  those 
who  started  with  you  are  going  on  in  life.  Perhaps 
through  folly,  perhaps  through  sin,  you  have  got 


1 64  OUTSIDE. 

beyond  the  pale.  There  is  a  narrow  passage  in  a 
certain  city,  a  steep  and  narrow  passage  of  evil  odors, 
through  which  many  clergymen  are  wont  to  go  to  a 
certain  building,  in  which  a  great  ecclesiastical  coun 
cil  meets.  In  a  dark  recess,  opening  into  that  narrow 
passage,  and  leading  to  various  wretched  dwellings,  I 
have  beheld  a  deposed  and  degraded  minister  stand 
ing  in  the  darkest  shadow  he  could  find,  and  watching 
those  who  were  once  his  brethren  going  up  by  the 
way  he  once  used  to  go,  —  but  shrinking  back  from 
their  notice.  Alas  for  the  poor  outsider,  —  so  near 
physically  to  the  place  where  he  used  to  be,  but 
morally  so  far  away  !  Surely  his  case  is  worse  than 
that  of  the  castaway,  swept  from  the  deck  into  the 
boiling  ocean.  After  that  sad  instance,  we  shall  feel 
the  less  sympathy  for  such  moral  outsiders  as  those 
who  suffer  through  the  existence  of  lines  of  social 
cleavage  :  the  people  who  chafe  at  being  excluded 
from  the  society  of  the  great  and  exclusive  First 
Circle  of  a  little  country  town  ;  or  who  complain 
keenly  that  some  wealthy  or  perhaps  noble  neighbor 
keeps  them  on  the  outside  of  his  dwelling.  Probably 
you  have  known  people  feel  this  moral  exclusion  very 
bitterly.  You  may  have  heard  a  lady  in  some  small 
community  complain  with  extreme  severity  that  she 
was  thus  made  an  outsider;  and  that,  in  the  festive 
tea-parties  which  went  on  in  the  halls  of  light  around 
her  she  was  permitted  to  have  no  part.  At  the  same 
time  she  probably  showed,  with  great  force  of  state- 


OUTSIDE.  165 

ment  and  argument,  that  she  was  in  all  respects  a 
great  deal  better  than  the  people  inside  that  charmed 
circle  to  whose  outside  she  was  condemned.  You 
could  but  sympathize  with  the  individual  in  her  sor 
row,  and  advise  her  not  to  mind.  Every  one  has 
known  the  wrath  and  jealousies  which  have  arisen 
from  thus  putting  people  morally  outside,  —  from  not 
sending  them  cards  on  the  occasion  of  a  marriage,  — 
from  not  inviting  them  to  some  entertainment.  You 
may  remember  a  classical  instance  of  the  wrathful 
spirit  awakened  in  a  human  being  stung  by  the  sense 
of  being  outside.  Mr.  Samuel  Warren  describes  a 
man  as  standing  in  Hyde  Park  on  an  afternoon  in 
the  fashionable  season,  seeing  all  that  gay  life  going 
on,  and  feeling  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
and  bestowing  on  the  whole  system  of  things  his 
extremest  malison.  Perhaps  a  worthier  nature  might 
have  looked  on  in  kindly  interest  at  a  class  of  con 
cerns  and  a  mode  of  existence  in  which  he  had  no 
share  ;  and  hoped  that  all  paths  through  this  world, 
however  far  apart  in  time,  might  yet  end  and  meet  in 
the  same  happy  place  together.  We  may  wish  well, 
my  reader,  —  and  I  trust  we  shall  wish  well, — even  to 
those  with  whom  we  have  little  in  common,  —  even  to 
those  beyond  the  circle  of  whose  sympathies  we  stand, 
and  beyond  whose  comprehension  our  great  interests 
lie. 

Moral    outsideness    may  coexist  with    physical   in- 
sideness.      This  truth    is   well    known    to    unpopular 


166  OUTSIDE. 

officers  in  regiments,  who  though  physically  inside 
are  morally  outside  ;  also  to  schoolboys  who  for  some 
offence  have  been  temporarily  sent  to  Coventry  by 
their  young  companions.  And  probably  such  find  it  a 
heavy  trial  to  be  placed  outside  the  pale  of  society,  — 
to  sit  on  a  form  at  school  with  thirty  other  boys,  none 
of  whom  will  speak  to  them,  —  to  be  cut  off  from 
joining  in  the  games  of  the  play-ground.  There  used 
to  be  a  vulgar  expression  current  among  Scotch 
schoolboys,  —  probably  it  is  current  still,  —  which  was 
founded  on  this  principle :  that  a  human  being  though 
physically  an  insider  may  be  morally  an  outsider. 
You  spoke  of  being  in  with  such  a  youthful  com 
panion,  and  out  with  such  another.  You  are  aware 
how  consignment  to  moral  outsideness  often  serves 
as  a  fearful  punishment  of  offences  to  which  laws 
cannot  reach.  To  be  entirely  repudiated  and  cast  off 
by  the  society  amid  which  you  live,  whether  lofty  or 
lowly,  —  to  be  made  a  social  outlaw  and  outsider,  —  is 
something  not  easily  borne  even  by  the  most  callous ; 
—  something  which  right-thinking  men  could  support 
only  by  the  firm  conviction  that  solemn  principle 
prompted  the  conduct  which  brought  down  this  repro 
bation.  It  is  not  nearly  so  lonely  a  thing  to  dwell 
in  the  wilderness,  never  seeing  a  human  face,  as  it 
would  be  to  live  in  the  town  in  which  you  were  born 
and  brought  up,  and  to  see,  as  you  walked  its  streets, 
scores  of  faces  you  know  well,  but  each  averted  as 
you  pass.  You  may  have  seen  poor  women  bear 


OUTSIDE.  167 

this,  with  what  crucifixion  of  the  whole  nature  they 
only  know  ;  you  may  have  beheld  them  face  the  uncon 
sciousness  of  their  presence  on  the  part  of  old  friends 
with  a  disdainful  smile,  or  meet  it  with  the  look  that 
betokened  a  breaking  heart.  I  have  witnessed  this, 
my  reader,  more  than  once;  and  I  doubt  not  you 
have  done  so  too.  As  for  men,  they  can  stand  all 
this  better.  They  can  always  find  a  certain  class  who 
are  content  to  associate  with  them  :  a  class  of  people 
like  themselves.  And  with  a  great  injustice,  not  in 
deed  without  some  reasons  in  its  favor,  you  know  how 
even  the  most  reputable  society  passes  lightly  in  a 
man  what  it  visits  with  its  severest  reprobation  in  a 
woman.  Yes ;  you  may  have  witnessed  a  brazen 
outsider,  who  ought  never  to  have  been  suffered  in 
side  again,  gradually  elbowing  himself,  by  force  of 
face,  into  weight  in  the  senate  of  a  certain  moral 
country.  You  may  have  known  an  unrepenting 
blackguard,  once  cast  out  by  the  society  of  the  town 
and  the  county,  and  who  never  afforded  the  faintest 
reason  why  he  should  be  let  in,  step  by  step  getting 
in  again  ;  till  at  length  the  aged  reprobate  was  in  high 
favor  in  families  abounding  in  girls,  and  saw  clergy 
men  of  great  pretensions  seated  at  his  hospitable 
board.  Yet,  in  the  main,  a  man  becomes  an  outsider 
by  deserving  it.  I  mean  an  outsider  with  people  with 
whom  he  would  wish  to  be  an  insider.  With  others, 
it  may  be  different.  I  have  heard  of  a  young  mid 
shipman  who  was  made  an  outsider  because  he  read 


168  OUTSIDE. 

his  Bible  morning  and  evening ;  and  because  he  would 
not  get  drunk  when  the  rest  did.  A  man  would  be 
made  an  outsider  in  certain  parts  of  this  empire, 
unless  he  helped  to  screen  the  sneaking,  cowardly 
murderer  who  shoots  his  landlord  from  shelter  of  a 
tree,  because  asked  to  pay  his  rent.  And  there  are 
parts  of  America  in  which  you  would  become  an 
outsider  unless  you  spoke  in  praise  of  the  biggest  and 
blackest  outrage  on  humanity  that  the  sun  looks  down 
on  —  I  mean  negro  slavery.  Of  course,  among  thieves 
you  must  say  nothing  against  stealing,  or  they  might 
turn  you  out.  But  in  the  main,  in  this  country, 
people  are  put  outside  because  it  serves  them  rightly. 
And  the  punishment  is  a  fearfully  severe  one,  reach 
ing  to  sins  and  to  people  not  otherwise  easily  punished. 
You  have  known  persons  obliged,  by  this  moral 
outlawry,  to  go  away  from  the  district  or  the  country 
where  all  their  interests  lay  ;  even  great  wealth  and 
rank  have  not  sufficed  to  prevent  a  man's  feeling 
bitterly  that  he  was  made  an  outsider.  You  may 
have  seen  the  fair  mansion  and  the  noble  trees  which 
their  owner  could  never  enjoy,  because  he  durst  not 
show  his  face  where  he  was  known.  There  was  once 
a  man  of  no  small  position,  who  was  master  of  a  pack 
of  fox-hounds,  let  us  say  in  Ethiopia.  On  a  certain 
Sunday,  that  man  chose  to  amuse  himself  by  taking 
out  his  hounds,  and  chasing  a  fox  which  he  had 
caught,  —  having  cut  off  the  poor  fox's  feet  previously 
to  turning  it  out  to  be  chased.  Of  course  the  brute 


OUTSIDE.  1G9 

(I  mean  the  master  of  hounds)  was  brought  before 
the  magistrates  of  that  part  of  Ethiopia,  and  heavily 
fined.  The  law  could  do  no  more ;  and  the  punish 
ment  was  most  insufficient.  The  brute  probably  cared 
very  little  for  that.  But  he  probably  cared  a  good 
deal  when  in  a  day  or  two  he  received  a  communi 
cation  from  all  the  princes  and  nobles  of  that  district, 
in  which  they  told  him  that  they  withdrew  from  his 
hunt  and  cut  his  acquaintance.  Prompt  and  resolute 
outsiding  inflicted  justice  in  the  most  satisfactory  way. 
I  have  more  to  say  of  moral  outsiders ;  but  at  this 
point  I  cannot  help  looking  round,  and  thinking  what 
a  blessing  it  sometimes  is  to  be  physically  outside. 
Not  far  away,  there  lies  the  great  city.  Inside  it  the 
writer  lives ;  and  he  judges  it  the  best  of  cities ;  but 
now  he  is  beyond  it ;  he  is  an  outsider  for  three  days 
of  perfect  rest  in  the  quiet  country.  It  is  often  worth 
while  to  go  in,  that  you  may  fully  appreciate  the 
blessing  of  coming  out.  Did  you  ever,  reader,  live 
in  July,  on  that  most  beautiful  Frith  of  Clyde  ?  After 
a  week  in  that  pure  air,  and  amid  that  scenery  that 
combines  so  wonderfully  richness  and  magnificence, 
you  cease  fully  to  understand  what  a  privilege  you  are 
enjoying.  But  go  up  for  a  day  to  the  hot,  choky 
Glasgow  of  July !  Remain  for  five  hours  in  that 
sweltering  atmosphere,  hurrying  from  place  to  place 
on  business,  and  stunned  by  the  ceaseless  whirl  of  that 
hearty  and  energetic  town ;  and  then  go  back  to  the 
seaside !  Oh,  how  delightful  to  get  away  into  the 


170  OUTSIDE. 

clear  air  and  the  quiet  again !  And  in  this  green 
place,  I  think  of  the  city  already  spoken  of;  and  of 
much  work  and  worry  there ;  and  feel  that  here  for  a 
little  one  is  outside  it  all.  I  think  of  a  certain  Gothic 
building,  in  which  is  now  sitting  an  ecclesiastic  council 
which  I  much  revere.  I  think  of  the  hot  atmosphere, 
of  the  buzz,  of  the  excitement,  of  the  speeches  so 
very  interesting  and  so  very  long.  I  observe  from 
the  newspaper  that  yesterday  two  gentlemen  spoke 
four  hours  each.  And  then  I  look  at  that  rich  syc 
amore,  with  foliage  so  thick,  and  at  the  hawthorn 
blossoms,  and  at  the  yellow  broom,  and  at  the  green 
grass  (for  there  is  "much  grass  in  this  place"),  and 
thank  God  for  all ! 

Last  night,  on  the  little  village  green,  I  saw  several 
moral  outsiders,  —  I  mean  members  of  a  class  from 
which  respectable  folk  would  for  the  most  part  shrink 
away.  There  were  four  poor  fellows,  acrobats  or  tum 
blers  ;  and  a  girl  who  is  a  rope-dancer.  They  had 
sent  in  advance  a  large  bill,  which  was  stuck  on  a 
tree,  to  say  there  was  a  grand  entertainment  coming. 
The  entertainment  hardly  came  up  to  its  description. 
Still  the  men  did  many  really  wonderful  gymnastic 
feats.  They  had  a  striking  scene  in  which  to  display 
their  ability.  It  was  a  beautiful  twilight;  the  little 
green  had  fine  large  trees  round  it ;  in  the  distance 
there  was  a  great  purple  hill,  and  close  by  was  the 
gray  old  chapel.  The  only  drawback  was  a  very 
cold  wind.  There  was  a  large  assemblage  of  country 


OUTSIDE.  171 

folk,  not  very  hearty  or  appreciative  spectators ;  and 
all  evidently  regarding  themselves  as  on  a  totally  dif 
ferent  level  from  the  poor  wanderers.  The  four  men 
turned  somersaults  and  the  like  ;  the  poor  girl,  in  her 
sorry  finery,  stood  by,  wrapped  in  a  large  shawl  till 
the  time  of  her  performance  should  come.  I  observed 
that  when  the  hat  went  round,  the  rustic  audience 
evinced  great  economy  in  their  gifts.  The  Fool,  poor 
fellow,  his  face  bedaubed  with  coarse  red  and  white, 
and  wearing  a  cap  with  two  ears,  simulated  great 
spirits,  and  made  many  jokes.  I  looked  at  him  with 
great  pity,  and  wondered  if  any  human  being  ever 
deliberately  chooses  that  way  of  earning  his  bread,  or 
whether  some  men  are  gradually  hedged  up  to  it,  with 
out  having  had  a  chance  of  anything  else.  I  was  spe 
cially  sorry  for  the  poor  girl,  standing  with  the  cold 
wind  blowing  through  her  thin  dress.  The  rustics 
roared  with  laughter,  as  the  fool  quoted  Shakspeare. 
He  was  evidently  a  man  of  better  education  than  the 
rest.  His  most  effective  point  was  when  he  took  up  a 
small  looking-glass,  which  was  to  be  given  as  a  prize 
in  some  way  I  did  not  make  out,  and,  looking  into 
the  glass,  exclaimed,  "  Ah,  that  face !  that  fine  old 
face  !  He  was  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all,"  —  and 
so  forth.  Not  since  I  was  a  child  have  I  seen  such 
people  ;  and  I  was  greatly  touched  by  the  sight  of 
them,  and  by  thinking  what  kind  of  life  they  must 
lead.  I  wondered  if  they  ever  went  to  church,  or  if 
any  clergyman  cared  for  them  when  they  might  be 


172  OUTSIDE. 

sick  or  dying.  And  if  I  had  been  able,  I  should  as 
suredly,  in  defiance  of  all  the  laws  of  Political  Econ 
omy,  have  seized  them,  and  taken  them  away  from 
their  sorry  occupation,  and  set  them  to  respectable 
work,  and  made  them  go  regularly  to  church  ;  and,  in 
short,  brought  them  inside. 

There  is  a  curious  feeling  of  the  difference  of  being 
inside  and  outside,  when  you  are  sitting  in  the  cabin 
of  a  ship  at  sea.  It  is  so,  even  if  you  be  making  a 
voyage  no  longer  than  that  from  Glasgow  to  Liverpool. 
It  is  more  so,  if  you  be  sailing  on  distant  seas.  Fancy 
a  snug  little  sleeping-cabin,  and  you  lying  there  in  a 
comfortable  berth  placed  against  the  side  of  the  ship. 
You  lazily  lay  your  head  upon  the  end  of  the  pillow 
next  the  ship's  side  ;  about  six  inches  distant  from 
you,  but  outside,  there  is  a  huge  shark  rubbing  its 
nose  against  the  vessel.  Your  head  and  the  horri 
ble  head  of  the  strange  monster  are  but  a  few  inches 
apart ;  happily  you  are  inside  and  the  monster  out 
side.  Somehow  it  seems  as  if  it  were  a  more  remark 
able  thing  for  a  homely  Scot,  who  went  in  his  youth 
to  a  Scotch  parish  school  and  a  Scotch  parish  church, 
to  be  eaten  by  a  shark  in  a  far-away  place,  than  it 
would  be  for  almost  any  other  human  being  to  meet  a 
like  end.  The  parish  school  and  the  Shorter  Cate 
chism  are  things  wholly  inconsistent  with  a  man's  liv 
ing  any  other  than  a  decent  life,  or  meeting  any  other 
than  a  quiet  Christian  close.  You  know  how  pleasant 
and  refreshing  it  is,  when  you  are  walking  along  a 


OUTSIDE.  173 

dusty  road  in  June,  outside  some  beautiful  park,  to 
come  to  a  spot  whence  you  have  a  view  into  a  green 
recess  of  the  woods  within.  And  probably  you  know 
a  city  where,  as  you  walk  the  glaring  summer  streets, 
you  can  look  in  many  places  through  iron  rails  into 
depths  of  cool  grass  and  verdant  leaves  that  gladden 
eyes  and  heart  together.  And  if  you  pay  a  yearly 
subsidy  for  a  share  in  such  a  place,  you  know  that 
when  the  iron  gate  swings  noisily  into  its  place  behind 
you,  and  you  pass  from  the  pavement  to  the  neat  grav 
elled  walk  or  the  cool  turf,  though  it  be  but  for  a  quar 
ter  of  an  hour  at  the  close  of  a  busy  afternoon,  you 
have  felt  that  there  is  far  more  than  a  physical  differ 
ence  between  the  outside  and  the  inside  ;  you  have 
felt  that  breaths  of  balmy  country  air  come  back  to 
you,  and  the  remembrance  of  pleasant  country  cares. 
There  are  human  beings,  the  possessors  of  fair  do 
mains,  who  seek  by  lofty  walls  to  keep  their  fellow- 
creatures  outside  their  belongings,  —  even  to  prevent 
their  fellow-creatures  from  refreshing  their  weary  eyes 
by  looking  upon  green  expanses  which  they  are  not 
likely  to  tread.  It  is  a  narrow  and  unworthy  mind 
that  feels  it  cannot  fully  enjoy  its  own  possessions, 
unless  all  mankind  be  kept  definitively  outside  them  ! 
But  it  testifies  to  a  truly  noble  nature,  when  we  see 
what  may  be  seen  in  many  places  now :  the  possessor 
of  a  beautiful  stretch  of  landscape  around  his  dwell 
ing  cordially  welcoming  his  humbler  neighbors  to  its 
paths  and  glades,  —  giving  up  the  prettiest  portion  of 


174  OUTSIDE. 

his  park  for  a  cricket-ground  for  the  lads  of  the  ad 
joining  village,  —  and  judging  that  his  charming  acres 
look  all  the  more  charming  when  they  cease  to  be  a 
charming  solitude,  and  are  lighted  up  by  happy  faces. 
But  a  sweet  country  place  is  usually  in  the  midst  of  a 
sweet  country  ;  and  there  is  no  place  where  you  value 
green  grass  and  green  trees  so  much,  as  when  you  see 
them  in  contrast  to  the  streets  of  a  town,  and  espe 
cially  to  the  ugliest  streets  of  a  town.  I  know  a  spot 
which,  on  a  summer  day,  is  peculiarly  stifling  and 
dusty,  —  the  dust  being  mainly  the  dust  of  coal. 
There  is  a  suburban  railway  station ;  there  are  va 
rious  mills ;  there  are  houses  of  unattractive  exterior ; 
everything  is  glaring  in  the  sunshine ;  everything  is 
covered  with  dust.  But  you  enter  by  a  door  in  a 
lofty  wall,  and  you  feel  the  difference  between  being 
outside  and  inside.  There  is  a  curious,  old-fashioned 
house,  surrounded  by  a  pretty  garden,  laid  out  with 
much  taste.  Everything  is  green,  fresh,  cool,  quiet. 
It  would  be  a  pleasant  spot  anywhere  ;  but  being 
where  it  is,  it  is  a  true  feast  to  the  eyes.  You  enjoy 
the  inside  so  much  more  keenly,  for  the  contrast  with 
the  outside.  Green  grass,  green  trees,  clear  water, 
abundant  flowers  and  blossoms,  freshness  and  fra 
grance  in  the  air.  And  outside,  the  coal-dust,  the 
glaring  pavements,  the  railway  station  ! 

I  suppose  most  people  like  to  contrast  insides  and 
outsides,  that  they  may  relish  one  or  other  the  more. 
Did  you  ever,  my  reader,  sit  in  your  warm,  cheerful 


OUTSIDE.  175 

library,  on  a  cold  winter  night,  away  in  the  country, 
which  in  winter  (it  must  be  confessed)  looks  dread 
fully  bleak  to  people  accustomed  to  the  town  ?  Your 
curtains  are  drawn,  and  your  lamp  is  lit ;  and  there 
are  your  familiar  books  all  round,  with  their  friendly- 
looking  backs.  There  is  the  blazing  fire,  and  not 
withstanding  the  condemnation  of  a  certain  great 
Bishop,  you  do  not  think  it  wrong  to  possess  various 
easy-chairs.  All  this  is  pleasant.  There  is  an  air  of 
snugness  and  comfort,  and  you  feel  very  thankful,  it 
is  to  be  hoped,  to  the  Giver  of  all.  But  you  do  not 
know,  from  the  survey  of  the  mere  interior,  how 
pleasant  it  is.  Go  away  out,  and  look  at  the  cold 
wall  outside  your  chamber.  There  it  is,  dark  with 
the  plashes  of  rain,  which  the  howling  blast  bitterly 
beats  against  it.  There  are  the  leafless  trees,  shiver 
ing  in  the  blast.  There  is  the  stormy  sky,  with  the 
racking  clouds,  which  the  chilly  moon  is  wading 
through.  If  you  try  to  make  out  the  landscape  as 
a  whole,  there  is  nothing  but  a  dense  gloom,  with  a 
spectral  shape  here  and  there,  which  you  know  to  be 
a  gate  or  a  tree.  On  a  moonless  night,  the  country  is 
terribly  dark.  It  is  dark  to  a  degree  that  townfolk, 
with  their  abundant  street  lamps,  have  no  idea  of. 
After  beholding  all  these  things  outside,  come  in 
again,  and  you  will  understand  in  some  measure 
how  well  off  you  are.  You  will  know  the  distance 
there  may  be,  between  the  two  sides  of  a  not  very 
thick  wall. 


176  OUTSIDE. 

Less  than  a  wall  may  make  the  distance.  You 
have  probably  travelled  in  a  railway  carriage  through 
a  dark  stormy  night.  If  you  are  a  quiet,  stay-at- 
home  person,  who  do  not  travel  so  much  that  all  rail 
way  travelling  has  come  to  be  a  mere  weariness  to 
you,  you  will  enjoy  such  a  night  with  considerable 
freshness  of  interest.  And  especially,  you  will  feel 
the  distance  between  being  outside  and  being  inside. 
Inside,  the  thick  cushions  ;  the  two  great  powerful 
lamps,  which  give  abundant  light ;  the  warm  rugs  and 
wraps ;  the  hot  water  stool  for  your  feet ;  the  news 
papers,  and  the  new  magazine  ;  one  or  two  pleasant 
companions,  who  do  not  trouble  you  by  talking,  ex 
cept  at  the  stations  ;  —  the  stations  forty  miles  apart. 
There  you  lie  in  luxury,  with  the  feeling  that  you 
may  honestly  do  nothing,  —  that  you  may  rest.  And 
looking  through  the  window,  there  is  the  bleak,  dark 
landscape,  with  all  kinds  of  strange  shapes  which  you 
cannot  make  out:  the  glare  cast  upon  cuttings  through 
which  you  tear,  the  fearful  hissing  and  snorting  of 
a  passing  engine,  the  row  of  lighted  windows  of  a 
passing  train  ;  the  lurid  flame  of  distant  furnaces, 
the  lights  of  sleeping  towns.  Yes,  a  night's  travel 
ling  between  Edinburgh  and  London  is  as  wonderful 
a  thing  as  anything  recorded  in  the  "Arabian  Nights  " 
if  it  were  not  that  it  has  grown  so  cheap  and  com 


mon 


Looking  out  of  the  carriage-window  over  the  tracts 
on  either  side,  and  thinking  how  little  parts  you  from 


OUTSIDE.  177 

them,  you  may  call  to  mind  a  certain  ghastly  jour 
ney  by  a  night-train.  A  deliberate  and  cruel  mur 
derer,  who  had  committed  (it  was  believed)  more 
than  one  or  two  murders  for  gain,  was  very  justly 
sentenced  to  be  hanged.  He  was  tried  and  sentenced 
in  London  ;  and  then  he  was  conveyed  in  a  railway 
carriage  a  journey  of  a  hundred  and  forty  miles  to 
the  place  of  execution.  He  sat,  manacled,  between 
two  officers  of  justice,  through  these  hours  of  travel 
ling.  It  must  have  been  an  extraordinary  journey  ! 
It  was  a  near  glimpse  of  freedom  for  a  man  to  have 
when  the  tightest  meshes  of  the  law  had  grasped  him. 
There  he  was,  inside,  —  a  person  going  to  a  dreadful 
death  ;  and  outside,  stretching  away  and  away,  the  free 
fields  ;  and  only  the  two  or  three  inches  between  that 
inside  and  that  outside  !  I  can  imagine  how  the  poor 
wretch  thought,  Oh,  if  I  could  but  get  into  the  mid 
dle  of  that  thick  wood  ;  if  I  could  but  hide  under  that 
ivied  bridge  ;  if  I  could  but  put  a  hundred  yards 
of  midnight  darkness  between  me  and  those  terrible 
keepers  who  have  me  in  their  charge !  I  can  im 
agine  how,  as  he  felt  rapid  mile  after  mile  bringing 
him  nearer  the  scaffold,  he  would  wish  for  some  terri 
ble  accident,  some  awful  smash  ;  nothing  could  come 
amiss  to  him  ;  nothing  could  make  him  worse !  But 
in  such  a  case,  of  course,  the  little  partition  between 
the  inside  and  the  outside,  —  the  couple  of  inches  of 
timber  and  cloth,  the  eighth  of  an  inch  of  glass, — 
was  the  little  indication  of  an  awful  gulf,  that  had 
12 


178  OUTSIDE. 

been  making  for  months  and  perhaps  years.  Some 
times,  indeed,  the  grievous  moral  lapse  that  puts  a 
man  in  the  cage  of  which  he  can  never  get  out,  —  or 
that  puts  him  outside  the  pale  through  which  he  can 
never  afterwards  get  in,  —  may  be  the  doing  of  a  very 
short  time.  The  hasty  blow,  the  terribly  wrong  turn 
ing,  may  have  marked  a  change  as  definite  as  that 
when  the  poor  castaway  is  swept  from  the  ship's  deck 
into  the  waves  of  the  Atlantic. 

In  old  days,  when  society  was  unsettled,  it  seems  as 
if  one  would  have  felt,  more  vividly  than  now,  the 
difference  between  being  inside  and  being  outside,  in 
the  matter  of  safety.  There  must  have  been  a  pleas 
ant  feeling  of  security  in  looking  over  the  battlements 
of  a  great  castle,  and  thinking  that  you  were  safe  in 
side  them.  The  sense  of  danger  with  which  men 
must  in  those  days  have  gone  abroad,  would  be  com 
pensated  by  the  special  enjoyment  of  safety  when 
they  were  fairly  inside  some  place  of  strength.  Hu 
man  nature  is  so  made  that  even  though  you  are 
aware  that  no  one  desires  to  attack  or  injure  you,  still 
there  is  a  pleasure  in  thinking,  that  even  if  any  one 
had  such  a  desire,  he  could  not.  You  know  how  chil 
dren  like  to  imagine  some  outer  danger,  that  they 
may  enjoy  the  sense  of  safety  inside.  It  is  with  real 
delight  that  your  little  boy,  sitting  on  your  knee,  sud 
denly  hides  his  face  in  your  breast,  exclaiming  loudly 
that  there  is  a  great  bear  coming  to  eat  him.  He 
feigns  a  danger  outside,  that  he  may  enjoy  the  feel- 


OUTSIDE.  179 

ing  of  being  safe  from  it.  So  you  will  find  a  man 
who  has  been  laboring  hard,  going  away  for  a  little 
rest  to  some  remote  quiet  place.  He  tells  you,  no 
one  can  get  at  him  there.  The  truth  is,  nobody  wants 
to  get  at  him  ;  but  like  the  child  with  the  great  bear, 
he  calls  up  some  vague  picture  of  a  great  number  of 
people  coming  to  worry  him  about  a  great  many  mat 
ters,  that  he  may  have  the  pleasant  feeling  that  he  is 
safe  from  them  where  he  is.  You  can  think  of  a  man 
who  has  committed  some  crime,  flying  from  justice  ; 
and  as  he  puts  mile  after  mile  .of  desolate  country 
between  him  and  the  place  from  which  he  has  fled, 
thinking  that  surely  he  is  safe  in  this  retreat.  You 
can  think  of  the  forger,  a  few  years  since,  who  fled 
across  the  Atlantic ;  fled  from  the  American  seaboard 
and  penetrated  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  backwoods, 
till  he  stopped  in  an  utter  solitude  somewhere  in  the 
Far  West.  You  can  think  how,  as  week  after  week 
went  on,  he  began  to  feel  as  if  he  might  breathe  in 
peace  at  last ;  and  think  of  the  poor  wretch,  sitting 
one  evening  in  his  little  log-house,  when  two  London 
detectives  walked  in,  having  tracked  him  all  this  way ! 
Did  you  ever  see  a  foolish  duck  dive  at  a  hole  made 
in  the  ice ;  and  come  up  again  under  the  ice  at  a  hope 
less  distance  from  the  opening  ?  It  is  a  sad  thing  to 
see  even  that  poor  creature  perishing,  with  only  an 
inch  or  two  of  transparent  ice  between  it  and  the  air. 
You  hasten  to  break  a  hole  near  it  to  let  it  escape  ; 
but  by  the  time  the  hole  is  made,  the  duck  is  twenty 


180  OUTSIDE. 

yards  off.  The  duck  I  have  seen  ;  but  it  must  be  a 
fearful  case  when  a  human  being  gets  into  the  like 
position.  You  may  have  lately  read  how  a  man  was 
at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  well,  when  the  earth  near  the 
top  fell  together  and  shut  him  in.  There  were  ready 
hands  to  rescue  him ;  and  he  was  not  so  shut  in  but  that 
his  voice  could  be  heard  hurrying  his  deliverers.  He 
told  them  that  the  water  was  rising ;  that  it  was  at 
his  knees,  at  his  breast,  at  his  neck ;  and  the  workers 
above  were  too  late  to  save  him.  I  suppose  it  is  quite 
ascertained  that  in  those  wicked  and  cruel  ages  which 
ignorant  people  call  the  good  old  times,  it  was  not  unu 
sual  to  wall  up  a  nun  in  a  niche  of  a  massive  wall, 
and  leave  her  there  to  perish.  Vade  in  pacem,  were 
the  words  that  sentenced  to  this  doom  ;  which  the 
reader  probably  knows,  mean  not  Depart  in  peace,  but 
Go  to  rest.  Such  was  the  kindly  repose  provided  in 
those  happy  days.  And  another  dismal  inside  is  that 
of  which  Samuel  Rogers  tells  us  the  true  story  ;  the 
massive  chest  of  oak  in  which  a  poor  Italian  girl  hid 
herself,  which  closed  with  a  spring-lock,  and  never 
chanced  to  be  opened  for  fifty  years.  You  can  think 
of  the  terrible  rush  of  confused  misery  in  the  poor 
creature's  heart  when  she  felt  herself  shut  in,  and 
heard  the  voices  that  seemed  approaching  her  die 
away.  But  half  a  century  after,  when  the  chest  was 
drawn  out  to  the  light  and  its  lid  was  raised,  there 
was  no  trace  in  the  mouldering  bones  of  the  thrilling 
anguish  which  had  been  endured  within  that  little 


OUTSIDE.  181 

space.  It  is  a  miserable  story.  Yet  perhaps  it  has 
its  moral  analogies  not  less  miserable.  There  are 
human  beings  who  by  some  wrong  or  hasty  step  have 
committed  themselves  like  the  poor  girl  that  perished, 
—  who  have,  in  a  moral  sense,  been  caught,  and  who 
can  never  get  out. 

Yes  ;  it  is  a  great  question,  Outside  or  Inside  ;  and 
now,  my  reader,  you  must  let  me  remember,  drawing 
these  desultory  thoughts  to  a  close,  that  the  testing 
question  which  puts  all  mankind  to  right  and  left,  is 
just  the  question,  in  its  most  solemn  significance,  which 
may  be  set  out  in  that  familiar  phrase.  There  is  the 
Christian  fold,  —  there  is  the  outer  world ;  and  we  are 
either  within  the  fold  of  the  Good  Shepherd  of  souls, 
or  without  it.  It  is  not  a  question  of  degree,  as  it 
might  be  if  it  founded  on  our  own  moral  character  and 
deservings.  It  is  the  question,  have  we  confided  our 
selves  to  the  Saviour  or  not ;  are  we  right  or  wrong ; 
are  we  within  or  without  ?  And  the  two  great  alter 
natives,  we  know,  are  carried  out,  without  shading  off 
between,  into  the  unseen  world.  We  know  that  there, 
when  some  have  gone  in  to  the  feast,  the  door  is  shut ; 
and  others  may  stand  without,  and  find  no.  admission. 
Let  us  humbly  pray,  that  He  who  came  to  seek  and 
to  save  that  which  was  lost  may  find  each  reader  of 
this  page,  a  lost  sheep  by  nature,  a  poor  wanderer  in 
the  outer  wilderness,  —  and  draw  all  with  the  cords  of 
love  within  his  fold.  And  let  us  humbly  pray  that  at 


182  OUTSIDE. 

the  last,  we  may  all,  however  our  earthly  paths  have 
varied,  find  entrance  into  that  Golden  City,  which  has 
a  wall  great  and  high,  whose  building  is  of  jasper,  and 
which  shall  exclude  all  sin  and  sorrow  ;  through  whose 
gates,  though  not  shut  at  all  by  day  (and  there  shall 
be  no  night  there),  "  there  shall  in  no  wise  enter  into 
it  anything  that  defileth ; "  and  where  the  blessed 
inhabitants  "  shall  go  no  more  out,"  but  be  safe  in 
their  Father's  house  forever  ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 
GETTING   ON. 

.VERYBODY  is  Going  On.     We  are  all 

getting  through  our  little  span  of  day 
light.  We  are  spending  the  time  that  is 
allotted  to  us,  at  the  rate  of  three  hun 
dred  and  sixty-five  days  a  year.  We  are  all  going  on 
through  life,  somehow,  —  not  very  cheerfully,  if  one 
may  judge  by  the  careworn,  anxious  faces  of  most 
middle-aged  people  you  pass  on  the  street.  But  some 
people  are  not  merely  Going  On  ;  they  are  also  Get 
ting  On,  —  which  is  a  very  different  thing.  All  are 
growing  older ;  a  man  here  and  there  is  also  growing 
bigger.  I  mean  bigger  in  a  moral  sense.  As  you  and 
I,  my  reader,  look  round  on  those  early  companions 
who  started  with  us  in  the  race  of  life,  we  can  discern 
that  great  changes  have  passed  upon  many  of  them. 
Some  who  started  as  cart-horses,  of  a  very  shaggy  and 
uncombed  appearance,  have  gradually  assumed  the  as 
pect  of  thoroughbred,  or  at  least  of  well-bred  animals. 
Some  who  set  out  as  horses  sixteen  hands  high,  have 
shrunk  to  the  size  of  Shetland  ponies.  Certain  who 


184  GETTING  ON 

started  as  calves,  have  not  attained  maturity  with 
advancing  years;  and  instead  of  turning  into  consol 
idated  oxen,  they  have  only  grown  into  enormous 
calves.  But  without  going  into  such  matters,  I  am 
sure  you  know  that  among  your  old  companions  there 
are  those  who  are  shooting  ahead  of  the  rest,  or  who 
have  already  shot  ahead  of  them.  There  are  those 
who  are  pointed  at  as  Rising  Men.  They  are  de 
cidedly  Getting  On.  I  do  not  mean  that  they  are  be 
coming  famous,  or  that  they  are  becoming  great  men. 
They  have  not  had  much  chance  of  that.  Their  lot  has 
circumscribed  their  ambition.  Their  hearts  do  not  beat 
high  for  praise ;  but  have  known  various  perplexities  as 
to  the  more  substantial  question  of  the  earning  of  bread 
and  butter.  But  they  are  quietly  and  surely  progress 
ing.  They  have  now  advanced  a  good  deal  beyond  what 
they  were  five  or  ten  years  since.  Every  profession 
has  its  rising  men.  The  Church,  the  Law,  Medicine, 
Commerce,  Literature,  have  their  men  who  are  Get 
ting  On,  —  year  by  year  Getting  On.  A  great  many 
men  find  their  level  rather  early  in  life  ;  and  remain 
for  many  years  much  the  same  in  standing.  They  are 
not  growing  richer,  as  they  grow  older.  They  are 
not  coming  to  be  better  known.  They  are  not  gain 
ing  a  greater  place  and  estimation  in  their  walk  of 
life.  Many  a  little  shop-keeper  at  fifty-five  is  in 
worldly  wealth  much  as  he  was  at  thirty-five.  He 
has  managed  to  rub  on,  sometimes  with  a  hard  strug 
gle  ;  it  has  been  just  enough  to  make  the  day  provide 


GETTING  ON.  185 

for  the  day's  wants ;  and  there  has  been  no  accumula 
tion  of  money.  Many  a  domestic  servant,  after  many 
years  of  toil,  is  not  a  whit  better  off  than  when  she 
was  a  hopeful  girl.  If  she  has  been  provident  and 
self-denying,  she  may  have  a  few  pounds  in  the  Sav- 
ings'-bank.  Many  a  laboring  man  in  the  country  has 
been  able  each  week  to  make  the  hard-earned  shillings 
provide  food  and  clothing  for  his  children  and  their 
mother;  but  he  has  laid  up  no  store  ;  he  has  not  ad 
vanced  ;  he  lives  in  the  same  little  cottage  ;  and  his 
poor  sticks  of  furniture  are  all  the  worse  for  their 
wear ;  and  his  carefully-kept  Sunday  suit  is  not  so 
trim  now  as  it  used  to  be  when  he  courted  his  hard- 
featured  wife  in  her  fresh  girlhood,  and  was  esteemed 
as  a  rustic  beau.  Many  a  faithful  clergyman  at  sixty 
is  a  poorer  man  than  he  was  at  thirty ;  or  in  any  case 
not  richer.  It  has  cost  many  an  anxious  thought, 
through  these  years,  to  make  the  ends  meet ;  and  that 
hard  task  will  cost  its  anxious  thoughts  to  the  end. 
You  who  wish  to  have  an  efficient  clergy,  who  will  do 
their  work  heartily  and  well,  agitate  against  that 
wicked  and  idiotic  notion,  that  a  clergyman  is  likely 
to  do  his  work  best,  if  he  be  crushed  down  by  the 
pressure  of  poverty ;  if  his  wife  be  worn  into  her 
grave  by  sorry  schernings  to  make  the  little  means  go 
their  farthest ;  and  if  his  poor  little  children  have  to 
run  about  without  shoes  and  stockings.  There  are 
certain  opinions  which  I  should  not  think  of  meeting 
by  argument ;  but  rather  by  the  severest  application 


186  GETTING  ON. 

of  the  cat  of  ninetails.  And  one  of  these  is  the  opin 
ion  of  the  old  fool  (he  was  a  Scotch  Judge)  who  said 
that  u  a  puir  church  would  be  a  pure  church." 

But  returning  from  this  digression,  let  me  repeat, 
that  however  hard  it  may  be  to  explain  how  some  men 
get  on  while  others  do  not,  there  can  be  no  question  as 
to  the  fact  that  some  men  do  get  on  while  others  do 
not.  People  get  on  in  many  ways ;  as  you  will  un 
derstand,  if  you  look  back  a  few  years,  and  compare 
what  some  of  your  friends  were  a  few  years  since 
with  what  they  are  now.  There  is  A,  whom  you  re 
member  in  his  early  days  at  college,  an  ungainly  cub 
with  a  shock  head  of  red  hair  and  a  tremendous 
Scotch  accent.  That  man  has  taken  on  polish  ;  he 
has  got  on  ;  he  has  seen  the  world  ;  he  is  an  accom 
plished  gentleman.  There  is  B,  ten  years  since  a  poor 
curate ;  now  risen  to  the  charge  of  an  important 
parish.  There  is  C ;  he  has  married  a  rich  wife  ;  he 
has  a  fine  house ;  he  has  several  horses,  various  dogs, 
and  many  pigs ;  he  has  made  so  great  a  rise  in  life, 
that  you  would  say  that  sometimes  when  he  comes 
down-stairs  in  the  morning,  he  must  think  that  he  is 
the  wrong  man.  There  is  D ;  some  years  ago  he 
tried  in  vain  for  a  certain  very  small  appointment; 
the  other  day  he  was  offered  one  of  the  mo.st  valuable 
in  the  same  profession,  and  declined  it.  There  is  E  ; 
he  tried  to  write  for  the  magazines.  His  early  articles 
were  ignominiously  rejected.  The  other  day  he  got  a 
thousand  pounds  for  one  edition  of  a  few  of  the  re- 


GETTING  ON.  187 

jected  articles.  You  know  how,  in  running  the  race 
of  life,  some  one  individual  shows  his  head  a  little  in 
front,  gradually  increases  his  lead,  and  finally  dis 
tances  all  competition.  Once  upon  a  time,  there  was 
a  staff  of  newspaper  reporters  attached  to  a  certain 
London  journal.  One  of  them,  not  apparently  clev 
erer  than  the  rest,  drew  bit  by  bit  ahead,  till  he 
reached  the  wool-sack.  And  when  he  presided  in  the 
great  assembly  whose  speeches  he  was  wont  to  report. 
he  must  unquestionably  have  felt  that  he  had  Got  On. 
Indeed,  I  have  heard  that  homely  phrase  applied  to 
him  by  an  old  Scotch  lady  who  knew  him  in  his 
youth  ;  and  so  who  could  never  speak  of  his  success 
in  life  save  in  modified  terms.  "  Our  minister,"  said 
the  old  lady  to  me,  "  had  two  sons.  One  went  to  In 
dia.  As  for  John,  he  went  to  London  ;  and  he  got  on 
very  well."  No  doubt  John  had  got  on  ;  for  he  was 
at  that  time  Chief  Justice  of  England.  If  you  look 
at  "  The  Reliques  of  Father  Prout,"  you  will  find  a 
large  picture,  containing  portraits  of  the  contributors 
to  a  well-known  London  magazine,  thirty  years  ago. 
There  is  a  portrait  of  a  comparatively  unnoted  man, 
with  a  glass  stuck  in  his  eye.  He  was  an  outsider 
then ;  and  had  given  little  sign  of  what  he  was  to  be 
to-day.  The  portrait  is  of  Mr.  Thackeray.  You  may 
have  heard  the  name  before.  This  very  day,  I  was 
told  about  a  man  who  forty  years  since  opened  a  lit 
tle  shop,  stocked  chiefly  with  coarse  towels.  So  my 
informant  averred.  If  so,  the  demand  for  coarse 


188  GETTING  ON. 

towels  in  a  certain  great  town  must  have  been  enor 
mous,  or  the  individual  in  question  must  have  been 
most  fortunate  in  drawing  general  attention  to  his 
coarse  towels  ;  for  he  drew  ahead  of  other  dealers  in 
towels,  and  became  one  of  the  greatest  merchant- 
princes  of  England.  But  without  taking  extreme 
cases,  you  know  that  within  more  modest  limits,  there 
are  people  who  are  steadily  Getting  On.  While  one 
man  lives  for  thirty  years  in  the  same  house,  and 
maintains  the  same  general  appearance  ;  his  next 
neighbor  ascends  the  scale  of  fashion ;  gets  time  af 
ter  time  a  better  house,  till  he  attains  a  grand  coun 
try  mansion ;  and  from  the  total  absence  of  any  save 
the  conveyance  common  to  mankind,  attains  to  the 
phaeton,  the  brougham,  and  the  family  chariot.  One 
preacher  does  his  duty  steadily  and  respectably,  year 
after  year ;  and  no  one  thinks  anything  particular 
about  him.  Another  tears  like  a  rocket  to  the  high 
est  elevation  of  the  preacher's  precarious  popularity. 
His  church-doors  are  mobbed  ;  his  fame  overspreads 
the  land  ;  his  portrait  is  in  the  shop-windows ;  his 
sermons  sell  by  scores  of  thousands. 

How  is  it  that  men  Get  On  ?  How  is  it  that  in 
every  walk  of  life,  there  are  those  who  draw  ahead  of 
their  competitors  ?  It  is  a  very  simple  and  primary 
notion,  not  likely  to  be  entertained  unless  by  youthful 
and  unsophisticated  minds  in  remote  rural  districts, 
that  the  most  deserving  men  Get  On  the  best.  To 


GETTING  ON.  189 

gain  any  advantage  or  eminence,  indeed,  which  is  not 
bestowed  by  high-handed  patronage,  a  man  must  have 
a  certain  amount  of  merit.  The  horse  that  wins  the 
Derby  must  unquestionably  be  able  to  gallop  at  a  very 
great  pace.  Of  course,  if  the  Derby  prize  were  given 
by  patronage,  it  might  occasionally  fall  to  a  horse  with 
only  three  legs.  And  there  are  places  in  the  Church 
and  the  Law  which  are  filled  up  by  unchecked  patron 
age  ;  and  in  which  a  perfectly  analogous  state  of  mat 
ters  may  be  discerned.  It  would  be  insulting  some 
men  to  suggest  that  they  were  placed  where  they 
are  because  they  were  the  best  men  eligible  ;  or 
even  because  they  were  fit  to  be  placed  there  at 
all.  You  may  have  known  instances  in  which  a  man 
was  put  in  a  certain  place,  because  he  was  the  worst 
man,  or  one  of  the  worst  men,  that  could  be  found. 
But  even  in  cases  where  the  eminence  is  not  arbitra 
rily  given,  —  where  it  is  understood  to  be  earned  by  the 
man  himself,  and  not  allotted  to  him  by  some  other 
man,  —  it  is  a  simple  and  unsophisticated  notion,  that 
the  best  man  gets  the  best  place.  The  winner  of  the 
Derby  must  be  able  to  gallop  very  fast ;  but  nine 
times  out  of  ten,  he  is  by  no  means  the  best  horse  that 
starts.  A  bad  place  at  starting ;  an  unlucky  push 
from  a  rival  in  mid-  career  ;  the  awkward  straining  of 
a  muscle  ;  a  little  nervousness  or  want  of  judgment  in 
the  jockey  who  rides  him  ;  and  the  best  horse  is 
beaten  by  a  very  inferior  one,  more  lucky  or  better 
handled.  I  am  obliged  to  say,  as  the  result  of  all  my 


190  GETTING  ON. 

observation  of  the  way  in  which  human  beings  Get 
On,  that  human  beings  get  on  mainly  by  Chance,  or 
Luck.  I  use  the  words  in  their  ordinary  meaning. 
I  mean  that  human  beings  Get  On  or  fail  to  Get  On, 
in  a  fashion  that  looks  fortuitous.  There  must  be 
merit,  in  walks  where  men  have  to  make  their  own 
way  ;  but  that  a  man  may  get  on,  he  must  be  seconded 
by  Good  Luck,  or  at  least  not  crossed  by  111  Luck. 
We  must  speak  of  things,  you  know,  as  they  appear 
to  our  ignorance.  I  know  there  is  a  Higher  Hand  ; 
and  I  humbly  recognize  that.  I  know  that  "  Promo 
tion  cometh  neither  from  the  East,  nor  from  the  West, 
nor  from  the  South  ;  but  God  is  the  Judge  ;  he  put- 
teth  down  one,  and  setteth  up  another."  We  all  feel 
that.  I  believe  that  these  words  of  the  Psalmist  give 
us  the  entire  philosophy  of  Getting  On.  It  is  a  mat 
ter  of  God's  sovereignty  ;  and  God's  sovereignty,  as  it 
affects  human  beings,  we  speak  of  as  their  Good  or 
111  Luck.  Of  course,  there  is  no  chance  in  the  mat 
ter  ;  everything  is  tightly  arranged  and  governed ; 
and  doubtless,  if  we  could  see  aright,  we  should  see 
that  there  are  wise  and  good  reasons  for  all ;  but  as 
we  do  not  know  the  reasons,  and  as  we  cannot  foresee 
the  arrangement,  we  fall  back  on  a  word  which  ex 
presses  our  ignorance  ;  and  which  states  the  fact  of 
the  apparent  arbitrariness  of  the  government  of  Provi 
dence.  Nothing  can  be  more  certain  than  the  fact, 
that  there  are  men  who  are  lucky  ;  and  other  men 
who  are  unlucky.  The  unlucky,  perhaps,  need  it  all ; 


GETTING  ON.  191 

and  the  lucky  can  stand  it  all ;  but  there  is  the  tact. 
And  we  know  that  there  are  blessed  compensations, 
not  known  to  onlookers,  which  may  make  the  thorn  in 
the  flesh  or  the  crook  in  the  lot  a  true  blessing ;  which 
cause  men  thankfully  to  say  that  it  was  good  for  them 
that  they  were  afflicted  and  disappointed ;  good  for 
them  that  they  did  not  Get  On.  The  wise  man  Jabez, 
you  remember,  knew  that  God  might  "  bless  indeed," 
while  to  other  eyes  He  did  not  seem  to  bless  at  all. 
And  so  his  prayer  was,  not  that  he  might  absolutely 
Get  On  ;  but  that  he  might  Get  On  or  fail  to  do  so  as 
God  saw  best.  "  Oh,  that  thou  wouldst  bless  me 
indeed ! "  And  so,  speaking  in  ordinary  language, 
let  me  say  that  I  hold  by  the  Psalmist.  It  is  God's 
sovereignty.  Fiat  Voluntas  Tua !  The  thing  that 
makes  men  Get  On  in  this  world,  is  mainly  their 
luck ;  and  in  a  very  subordinate  degree,  their  merit 
or  desert. 

Life  is  a  lottery.  No  doubt  there  is  no  real  chance 
in  life ;  but  then  there  is  no  real  chance  in  any  lottery. 
I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  what  we  deserve  has  very 
little  to  do  with  our  Getting  On.  And  all  human  schem 
ing  and  labor  have  very  little  to  do  with  the  actual  re 
sult  in  Getting  On.  And  for  this  reason,  I  find  a  great 
defect  in  all  that  I  have  seen  written  as  to  the  arts  of 
self-advancement,  whether  these  arts  be  honest  and 
commendable,  or  otherwise.  It  is  easy  to  point  out  a 
number  of  honorable  means  which  tend  to  help  a  man 
on,  and  a  number  of  contemptible  tricks  and  dodges 


192  GETTING  ON. 

which  tend  towards  worldly  wealth  and  influence.  But 
the  practical  use  of  all  these  directions  is  nullified  by 
the  fact,  that  some  fortuitous  accident  may  come  across 
all  the  hard  work  and  self-denial  of  the  worthy  man, 
or  all  the  dirty  trickery  of  the  diplomatic  cheat ;  and 
make  all  perfectly  futile.  Honest  industry  and  perse 
verance,  also  resolute  selfishness,  meanness,  toadyism, 
and  roguery,  tend  to  various  forms  of  worldly  success. 
But  you  can  draw  no  assurance  from  these  general 
principles,  as  to  what  either  may  do  for  yourself.  Out 
of  a  hundred  men,  the  Insurance  tables  will  tell  you 
very  nearly  how  many  will  live  for  five  or  ten  years  to 
come  ;  but  not  the  slightest  assurance  can  be  conveyed 
by  these  tables  to  any  individual  man  of  the  hundred 
as  to  his  expectations  of  life.  I  have  a  practical  lesson 
to  draw  from  all  this,  by  and  by ;  but  here  let  it  be  re 
peated,  that  as  a  general  rule,  it  is  not  the  most  deserv 
ing  who  Get  On,  but  the  most  lucky.  My  reader,  if 
you  have  met  success  in  life  yourself,  you  know  this 
well.  The  man  who  has  succeeded  knows  this  far 
better  than  the  man  who  has  failed.  The  writer  states 
his  principle  the  more  confidently,  because  he  knows 
he  has  himself  got  on  infinitely  better  than  he  de 
serves.  He  looks  back  on  the  ruck  with  which  he 
started,  and  he  sees  that  he  has  drawn  ahead  of  some 
who  deserved  at  least  as  well ;  who  deserved  far  bet 
ter.  The  writer  says  earnestly  that  it  is  not  the  most 
deserving  who  get  on  the  best ;  not  because  he  thinks 
he  has  got  less  than  he  deserves,  but  because  he  knows 


GETTING  ON.  193 

he  has  got  an  immense  deal  more.  For  these  things 
he  knows  Whom  to  thank ;  and  he  desires  to  be  thank 
ful. 

Chance,  then  (which  means  God's  Providence), 
advances  people  in  many  ways.  A  man  publishes  a 
book.  It  meets  great  success.  There  is  no  particular 
reason.  Other  books  as  good,  and  some  books  a  great 
deal  better,  prove  entire  failures.  A  man  goes  to  the 
bar,  and  shortly  a  stream  of  briefs  begins  to  set  in  tow 
ards  his  chambers.  Men  of  equal  ability,  and  eager 
to  excel  in  their  profession,  wait  wearily  on  year  after 
year.  A  nnn  goes  into  the  Church  ;  he  is  put  in  con 
spicuous  places,  where  his  light  is  not  hid  under  a 
bushel ;  he  gets  large  preferments,  no  one  can  exactly 
say  why.  He  fills  respectably  the  place  where  he  is 
put ;  but  doubtless  there  are  many  who  would  fill  it 
iust  as  well.  You  will  find  a  man  chance  upon  a  gen 
eral  reputation  for  great  learning,  of  which  he  never 
gave  the  slightest  proof.  Somehow  it  became  the  fash 
ion  to  speak  of  him  as  the  possessor  of  unexplored 
mines  of  information.  Then  you  know  how  a  man 
then  and  there  becomes  a  privileged  person,  you  can 
not  say  how.  A  privileged  person  means  a  man  who 
is  permitted  to  say  and  do  the  silliest  and  most  inso 
lent  things,  and  to  evince  the  most  babyish  pettedness 
of  temper,  —  things  for  which  anybody  else  would  be 
kicked,  or  esteemed  as  an  idiot;  but  when  the  privi 
leged  man  does  all  this,  every  one  sets  himself  to 
smooth  the  creature  down  if  he  be  petted,  and  to  ap- 

13 


194  GETTING  ON. 

plaud  his  silly  jokes  if  he  be  jocular.  I  do  not  know 
any  more  signal  instance  of  the  arbitrary  allotment  of 
things  in  this  world,  than  this.  It  has  been  truly  said 
that  one  man  may  steal  a  horse,  while  another  must 
not  look  over  the  gate.  To  a  certain  extent,  it  is  a 
matter  of  natural  constitution.  You  remember  how 
the  dog  was  accustomed,  without  rebuke,  to  jump  upon 
his  master's  knee  ;  while  the  donkey  was  chastised  se 
verely  on  endeavoring  to  do  the  same  thing.  You  will 
find  a  man  who  is  always  being  stroked  down  and  flat 
tered  by  the  members  of  some  public  body,  to  which 
he  never  rendered  any  particular  service.  One  can 
understand  why  the  great  Duke  of  Wellington,  even 
when  he  had  grown  an  extreme  obstruction  to  army 
business  and  reform,  should  be  deferred  to  by  the 
nation  for  which  he  had  done  so  much ;  but  you  may 
have  known  people  treated  with  the  like  deference, 
who  had  never  done  anything  through  life  but  dili 
gently  aim  at  securing  the  greatest  advantage  of  the 
greatest  number  ;  which  (it  is  well  known)  is  Number 
One.  Then  there  are  men  who  Get  On,  even  to  places 
of  very  great  dignity,  because  somehow  they  have  got 
into  the  track,  and  are  pushed  on  with  very  little  mo 
tive  force  of  their  own.  It  would  be  invidious  to 
mention  striking  instances  of  this:  but  it  would  be 
very  easy.  Other  men  Get  On,  by  being  appointed, 
with  little  competition,  to  some  position  which  at  the 
time  is  not  worth  much,  but  which  grows  important 
and  valuable.  And  a  worthier  way  of  Getting  On,  is 


GETTING  ON.  195 

when  a  man,  by  his  doings  and  character,  makes  a 
position  important,  which  in  other  hands  would  not 
be  so. 

The  Chance  (as  already  explained)  which  rules 
events  in  this  life,  never  appears  more  decidedly  than 
in  making  the  diligent  efforts  of  some  men  successful, 
and  of  other  men  futile.  We  can  see  the  arts  which 
men  use,  thinking  to  advance  themselves  ;  and  no  doubt 
these  arts  often  tend  directly  to  that  end  ;  but  then 
Chance  comes  in  to  say  whether  these  arts  shall  sig 
nally  fail  or  splendidly  succeed.  I  have  known  a  la 
borious  student  get  up  many  pages  of  Greek  for  an 
examination  ;  all  his  pages  most  thoroughly,  save  two 
or  three  which  were  hastily  read  over.  And  upon  the 
examination-day,  sure  enough  he  was  taken  upon  the 
pages  he  did  not  know  well,  while  his  competitor  was 
taken  on  his  pet  page,  which  he  knew  by  heart.  And 
there  were  scores  of  pages  which  that  competitor  had 
never  looked  at,  but  he  trusted  his  Luck,  and  it  did  not 
fail  him. 

It  may  be  assumed  as  certain,  that  all  men  would 
like  to  Get  On.  If  you  see  a  number  of  cabs  upon  a 
stand,  you  may  be  quite  sure  that  any  one  of  them 
would  take  a  fare  if  it  could  get  it%  And  a  man,  in 
all  ordinary  cases,  by  entering  any  profession,  becomes 
as  a  cab  upon  the  stand  waiting  for  a  fare.  If  he 
stand  idle  in  the  market-place  all  day,  it  may  be  taken 
for  granted  that  it  is  because  no  man  has  hired  him. 


196  GETTING  ON. 

And  though  we  may  have  quite  outgrown  our  early 
ambitions  ;  though  we  may  never  have  had  much  am 
bition  ;  though  we  may  be  quite  contented  with  our 
present  position  and  circumstances  ;  still,  we  should 
all  like  to  Get  On.  We  do  not  talk  of  ambition,  in 
the  case  of  commonplace  folk  like  ourselves  ;  and 
though  the  "  love  of  fame  "  has  been  called  the  "  uni 
versal  passion,"  I  believe  that  it  is  practically  confined 
to  a  very  little  fraction  of  mankind.  We  call  it  am 
bition  when  Mr.  Disraeli  goes  in  for  leader  of  the 
House  of  Commons  ;  or  when  Napoleon  twists  his 
way  to  a  throne.  We  do  not  call  it  ambition  when  a 
clergyman  would  like  a  larger  congregation  to  preach 
to,  or  another  hundred  or  two  a  year  of  income.  We 
do  not  speak  of  ambition  in  such  cases  ;  it  is  only  that 
people  would  like  to  Get  On  a  little.  We  like  to 
think  that  we  are  Getting  On  ;  that  we  live  in  a  bet 
ter  house  than  we  used  to  do  ;  that  our  little  library 
is  gradually  growing  ;  that  our  worldly  means  are  im 
proving  ;  that  we  are  a  little  wiser  and  better  than 
we  used  to  be.  But  though  we  may  take  for  granted, 
that  all  men  would  like  to  Get  On,  we  may  be  assured 
that  there  are  many  who  would  not  take  much  trouble 
to  do  so.  Their  wishes  are  moderate  ;  they  have 
learned  to  be  content.  They  will  not  fret  themselves 
into  a  fever ;  they  will  not  push.  And  much  less  will 
they  sneak,  or  cheat,  or  wriggle.  If  success  comes, 
they  are  pleased  ;  but  they  are  not  vexed  though  it 
do  not  come.  They  look  with  interest,  and  with  some 


GETTING   ON.  197 

amusement,  at  the  diplomatic  schemes  of  their  friends, 
who  enter  themselves  in  the  race  of  ambition.  They 
see  that  pertinacious  pushing  will  make  a  man  Get 
On,  unless  he  be  very  unlucky  or  very  incapable. 
But  they  do  not  think  it  worth  while  pertinaciously 
to  push.  They  see  that  judicious  puffing,  on  your 
own  part  and  that  of  jour  friends,  is  a  helpful  thing  ; 
but  they  shrink  from  puffing  themselves,  or  from 
hearing  their  friends  puff  them.  Puffing  is  a  great 
power  ;  as  Mr.  Barnum  and  others  know.  Jt  is  a 
great  thing,  to  have  friends  to  back  you  and  puff  you. 
One  man  publishes  a  book.  He  does  not  know  a  soul 
who  ever  printed  a  line.  There  is  not  a  human  being 
to  say  a  good  word  of  his  book  for  friendship's  sake. 
Another  author  has  a  host  of  literary  friends  ;  and 
when  his  book  comes  out,  they  raise  a  sough  of  ap 
plause  through  the  press.  And  all  this  is  very  natu 
ral  ;  and  is  not  unfair.  Only  the  unlucky  man  who 
has  got  no  friends  will  probably  grumble.  Yet  all 
this  will  not  always  succeed.  I  have  known  two 
books  come  out  together.  One  was  written  by  a  man 
who  had  no  writing  friends  ;  the  other  by  a  man  who 
had  many.  The  former  was  reviewed  widely  and 
favorably  ;  the  other  was  very  little  noticed  by  the 
reviewers.  But  you  cannot  always  force  things  upon 
the  reading  public.  The  unreviewed  book  sold  splen 
didly  ;  the  other  hardly  sold  at  all.  The  unreviewed 
book  enriched  its  author  ;  the  other  slightly  impover 
ished  its  author.  All  this,  of  course,  was  Luck  again. 


193  GETTING  ON. 

I  have  already  stated  what  appears  to  me  the  great 
defect  in  all  treatises  on  the  arts  of  self-advancement 
and  self-help.  There  appears  to  me  a  fallacy  at  the 
foundation  of  all  their  instructions.  They  all  say,  in 
one  form  or  other,  "  Do  so  and  so,  and  you  will  Get 
On."  Some  of  these  treatises  recommend  fair  and 
worthy  means  ;  as  industry,'  self-denial,  perseverance, 
honesty,  and  the  like.  Others  of  them  recommend 
unworthy  means  ;  as  selfishness,  nn scrupulousness,  im 
pudence,  toadyism,  sneakiness,  and  the  like.  But  they 
fail  to  allow  for  Chance  or  Providence.  They  fail  to 
bring  out  the  utter  uncertainty  which  attends  all  arts 
for  Getting  On.  No  mortal  can  say  how  a  man  is  to 
Get  On.  A  poor  Scotch  lad,  walking  the  London 
streets,  fell  into  a  cellar  and  broke  his  leg.  That 
made  his  fortune.  The  wealthy  owner  of  the  cellar 
took  him  up,  and  pushed  him  on  ;  and  he  rose  to  be 
Lord  Mayor  of  London  and  an  eminent  member  of 
Parliament.  A  certain  man  (and  a  good  man  too) 
became  a  Bishop  through  accidentally  attracting  the 
notice  of  a  disreputable  peeress  who  was  in  high  favor 
with  a  disreputable  monarch,  who  once  reigned  (let 
us  say)  in  the  centre  of  Africa.  The  likeliest  arts, 
whether  honest  or  dishonest,  may  fail  utterly.  And 
the  lesson,  I  think,  is  this  :  Do  your  duty  quietly  and 
honestly;  Don't  push,  don't  puff;  Don't  set  your 
heart  upon  any  worldly  end  ;  it  is  not  worth  while  ; 
if  success  comes,  well;  if  it  does  not  come,  you  do 
not  mind  much.  "  Seekest  thou  great  things  for  thy- 


GETTING  ON.  199 

self?  seek  them  not!"  There  never  were  words 
written  more  worthy  of  being  remembered  and  acted 
on  by  all  men.  There  is  no  use  in  being  ambitious. 
Being  ambitious  just  means  setting  your  whole  heart  on 
Getting  On  ;  and  in  this  world  people  seldom  get  the 
thing  on  whicli  they  set  their  heart.  And  no  matter 
how  you  may  labor  to  attain  your  end,  you  cannot  make 
sure  of  attaining  it.  You  may  probably  see  it  carried 
away  by  some  easy-going  man  who  cared  very  little  for 
it,  and  took  very  little  trouble  to  get  it.  Read  Mr. 
Smiles'  excellent  book  on  "  Self-Help."  It  will  do 
you  good  to  read  it.  It  will  spur  you  to  do  your  best, 
to  see  what  other  men  have  done.  But  remember, 
you  are  in  God's  hands.  The  issue  is  with  Him.  It 
no  more  follows  that  if  you  work  like  George  Ste- 
phenson  or  Lord  Eldon,  you  will  get  on  as  they  did  ; 
than  that  if  you  eat  the  same  thing  for  breakfast  as 
the  man  who  gets  the  great  prize  in  a  lottery,  you 
will  get  the  prize  like  him.  Still,  Mr.  Smiles  will  do 
you  good.  Unless  luck  sets  very  greatly  against  you, 
you  may,  by  honestly  doing  your  best,  Get  On  fairly. 
Your  chance  of  Getting  On  to  the  highest  point  of 
success  is  just  about  the  same  as  your  chance  of  being 
smashed  altogether.  It  is  not  great.  And  remember, 
my  friend,  that  it  is  not  worldly  success  that  is  the 
best  thing  we  can  get  in  this  world.  There  is  some 
thing  far  better.  And  perhaps  it  may  be  by  forbid 
ding  that  you  should  Get  On,  that  God  may  discipline 
you  into  that.  I  should  feel  very  great  interest  in 


200  GETTING  ON. 

reading  the  lives  of  a  number  of  men  who  honestly 
did  their  best,  and  failed  ;  yet  who  were  not  soured 
by  failure  ;  men  who,  like  St.  Paul,  bore  the  painful 
weight  through  life,  and  bore  it  kindly  and  humbly  ; 
getting  great  good  and  blessing  out  of  it  all.  Let  us 
always  keep  it  in  our  remembrance,  that  there  is 
something  far  better  than  any  amount  of  worldly  suc 
cess,  which  may  come  of  worldly  failure. 

Still,  remembering  all  thi.«,  it  is  interesting  to  look 
at  the  various  arts  and  devices  by  which  men  have 
Got  On.  Judicious  puffing  is  a  great  thing.  But  it 
must  be  very  judicious.  Some  people  irritate  one  by 
their  constant  stories  as  to  their  own  great  doings.  I 
have  known  people  who  had  really  done  considerable 
things  ;  yet  who  did  not  get  the  credit  they  deserved, 
just  because  they  were  given  to  vaporing  of  what 
they  had  done.  It  is  much  better  to  have  friends 
and  relatives  to  puff  you  ;  to  record  what  a  splendid 
fellow  you  are,  and  what  wonderful  events  have  be 
fallen  you.  Even  here,  if  you  become  known  as  one 
of  a  set  who  puff  each  other,  your  laudations  will  do 
harm  instead  of  good.  It  is  a  grand  thing  to  have 
relations  and  friends  who  have  the  power  to  actually 
confer  material  success.  Who  would  not  wish  to  be 
DOWB,  that  so  he  might  be  "  taken  care  of?  "  You 
have  known  men  at  the  Bar,  to  whom  some  powerful 
relative  gave  a  tremendous  lift  at  starting  in  their 
profession.  Of  course  this  would  in  some  cases  only 
make  their  failure  more  apparent,  unless  they  were 


GETTING  ON.  201 

really  equal  to  the  work  to  which  they  were  set. 
There  is  a  cry  against  Nepotism.  It  will  not  be 
shared  in  by  the  Nepotes.  It  must  be  a  fine  thing  to  be 
one  of  them.  Unhappily,  they  must  always  be  a  very 
small  minority ;  and  thus  the  cry  again-st  them  will  be 
the  voice  of  a  great  majority.  I  cannot  but  observe 
that  the  names  of  men  who  hold  canonries  at  cath 
edrals,  and  other  valuable  preferments  in  the  Church, 
are  frequently  the  same  as  the  name  of  the  Bishop  of 
the  diocese.  I  do  not  complain  of  that.  It  is  the 
plain  intention  of  Providence  that  the  children  should 
suffer  for  their  fathers'  sins,  and  gain  by  their  fathers' 
rise.  It  is  utterly  impossible  to  start  all  human  beings 
for  the  race  of  life,  on  equal  terms.  It  is  utterly 
impossible  to  bring  all  men  up  to  a  rope  stretched 
across  the  course,  and  make  all  start  fair.  If  a  man  be 
a  drunken  blackguard,  or  a  heartless  fool,  his  children 
must  suffer  for  it ;  must  start  at  a  disadvantage.  No 
human  power  can  prevent  that.  And  on  the  other 
hand,  if  a  man  be  industrious  and  able,  and  rise  to 
great  eminence,  his  children  gain  by  all  this.  Robert 
Stephen  ^on  had  a  splendid  start,  because  old  George 
his  father  got  on  so  nobly.  Lord  Stanley  entered 
political  life  at  an  immense  advantage,  because  he  was 
Lord  Derby's  son.  And  if  any  reader  of  this  page 
had  some  valuable  office  to  give  away,  and  had  a  son, 
brother,  or  nephew,  who  deserved  it  as  well  as  any 
body  else,  and  who  he  could  easily  think  deserved  it 
a  great  deal  better  than  anybody  else,  I  have  little 


202  GETTING  ON. 

doubt  that  the  reader  would  give  that  valuable  office 
to  the  son,  brother,  or  nephew.  I  have  known,  in 
deed,  magnanimous  men  who  acted  otherwise,  who  in 
exercising  abundant  patronage  suffered  no  nepotism  ; 
it  was  a  positive  disadvantage  to  be  related  to  these 
men;  they  would  not  give  their  relatives  ordinary 
justice.  The  fact  of  your  being  connected  with  them 
made  it  tolerably  sure  that  you  would  never  get 
anything  they  had  to  give.  All  honor  to  such  men  ! 
Yet  they  surpass  average  humanity  so  far,  that  I  do 
not  severely  blame  those  who  act  on  lower  motives. 
I  do  not  find  much  fault  with  a  certain  Bishop  who 
taught  me  theology  in  my  youth,  because  I  see  that 
he  has  made  his  son  a  canon  in  his  cathedral.  I 
notice,  without  indignation,  that  the  individual  who 
holds  the  easy  and  lucrative  office  of  Associate  in 
certain  Courts  of  Law,  bears  the  same  name  with  the 
Chief  Justice.  You  have  heard  how  Lord  ILllen- 
borough  was  once  out  riding  on  horseback,  when  word 
was  brought  him  of  the  death  of  a  man  who  held  a 
sinecure  office  with  a  revenue  of  some  thousands  a 
year.  Lord  Ellenborough  had  the  right  of  appoint 
ment  to  that  office.  He  instantly  resolved  to  ap 
point  his  son.  But  the  thought  struck  him,  that  he 
might  die  before  reaching  home,  —  he  might  fall  from 
his  horse,  or  the  like.  And  so  the  eminent  Judge 
took  from  his  pocket  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil, 
and  then  and  there  wrote  upon  his  saddle  a  formal 
appointment  of  his  son  to  that  wealthy  place.  And  a> 


GETTING  ON.  203 

it  was  a  place  which  notoriously  was  to  be  given,  not 
to  a  man  who  should  deserve  it,  but  merely  to  a 
man  who  might  be  lucky  enough  to  get  it,  I  do  not 
know  that  Lord  Ellenborough  deserved  to  be  greatly 
blamed.  In  any  case,  his  son,  as  he  quarterly  pock 
eted  the  large  payment  for  doing  nothing,  would 
doubtless  hold  the  blame  of  mankind  as  of  very  little 
account. 

But  whether  you  Get  On  by  having  friends  who 
cry  you  up,  or  by  having  friends  who  can  materially 
advance  you,  of  course  it  is  your  luck  to  have  such 
friends.  We  all  know  that  it  is  "  the  accident  of  an 
accident "  that  makes  a  man  succeed  to  a  peerage  or 
an  estate.  And  though  trumpeting  be  a  great  fact 
and  power,  still  your  luck  comes  in  to  say  whether  the 
trumpet  shall  in  your  case  be  successful.  One  man, 
by  judicious  puffing,  gets  a  great  name  ;  another, 
equally  deserving,  and  apparently  in  exactly  the  same 
circumstances,  fails  to  get  it.  No  doubt  the  dog  who 
gets  an  ill  name,  even  if  he  deserves  the  ill  name, 
deserves  it  no  more  than  various  other  sad  dogs  who 
pass  scot  free.  Over  all  events,  all  means  and  ends  in 
this  world,  there  rules  God's  inscrutable  sovereignty. 
And  to  our  view,  that  direction  appears  quite  ar 
bitrary.  "  One  shall  be  taken,  and  the  other  left." 
"Jacob  have  I  loved  and  Esau  have  I  hated."  "  Hath 
not  the  potter  power  over  the  clay,  of  the  same  lump 
to  make  one  vessel  unto  honor,  and  another  unto 
dishonor  ? "  A  sarcastic  London  periodical  lately 


204  GETTING  ON. 

declared  that  the  way  to  attain  eminence  in  a  certain 
walk  of  life,  was  to  "combine  mediocrity  of  talent  with 
family  affliction."  And  it  is  possible  that  instances 
might  be  indicated  in  which  that  combination  led  to 
very  considerable  position.  But  there  are  many  more 
cases  in  which  the  two  things  coexisted  in  a  very  high 
degree,  without  leading  to  any  advancement  whatso 
ever.  It  is  all  luck  again. 

A  way  in  which  small  men  sometimes  Get  On,  is 
by  finding  ways  to  be  helpful  to  bigger  men.  Those 
bigger  men  have  occasional  opportunities  of  helping 
those  who  have  been  helpful  to  them.  If  you  your 
self,  or  some  near  relation  of  yours,  yield  effectual 
support  to  a  candidate  at  a  keenly-contested  county 
election,  you  may  possibly  be  repaid  by  influence  in 
your  favor  brought  to  bear  upon  the  Government  of 
the  day.  From  a  bishopric  down  to  a  beadleship,  I 
have  known  such  means  serve  valuable  ends.  It  is  a 
great  thing  to  have  any  link,  however  humble,  and 
however  remote,  that  connects  you  with  a  Secretary 
of  State,  or  any  member  of  the  Administration.  Pol 
itical  tergiversation  is  a  great  thing.  Judicious  rat 
ting,  at  a  critical  period,  will  generally  secure  some 
one  considerable  reward.  In  a  conservative  institu 
tion  to  stand  almost  alone  in  professing  very  liberal 
opinions  ;  or  in  a  liberal  institution  to  stand  almost 
alone  in  professing  conservative  opinions  ;  will  prob 
ably  cause  you  to  Get  On.  The  leaders  of  parties  are 
likely  to  reward  those  who  among  the  faithless  are 


GETTING  OX.  205 

faithful  to  them  ;  and  who  hold  by  them  under  diffi 
culties.  Still,  luck  comes  in  here.  While  some  will 
attain  great  rewards  by  professing  opinions  very  in 
consistent  with  their  position,  others  by  doing  the  same 
things  merely  bring  themselves  into  universal  ridicule 
and  contempt.  It  is  a  powerful  thing,  to  have  abun 
dant  impudence  ;  to  be  quite  ready  to  ask  for  whatever 
you  want.  Worthier  men  wait  till  their  merits  are 
found  out ;  you  don't.  You  may  possibly  get  what 
you  ask  ;  and  then  you  may  snap  your  fingers  in  the 
face  of  the  worthier  man.  By  a  skilful  dodge,  A  got 
something  which  ought  to  have  come  to  B.  Still,  A 
can  drive  in  dignity  past  B,  covering  him  with  mud 
from  his  chariot-wheels.  There  was  a  man  in  the  last 
century  who  was  made  a  bishop  by  George  III.,  for 
having  published  a  poem  on  the  death  of  George  II. 
That  poem  declared  that  George  II.  was  removed  by 
Providence  to  heaven,  because  he  was  too  good  for  this 
world.  You  know  what  kind  of  man  George  II.  was  ; 
you  know  whether  even  Bishop  Porteus  could  possibly 
have  thought  he  was  speaking  the  truth  in  publishing 
that  most  despicable  piece  of  toadyism.  Yet  Bishop 
Porteus  was  really  a  good  man,  and  died  in  the  odor 
of  sanctity.  He  was  merely  a  little  yielding.  Hon 
esty  would  have  stood  in  the  way  of  his  Getting  On  ; 
and  so  honesty  had  to  make  way  for  the  time.  Many 
people  know  that  a  certain  Bishop  was  to  have  been 
made  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  ;  but  that  he  threw 
away  his  chance  by  an  act  of  injudicious  honesty.  On 


206  GETTING   ON. 

one  occasion,  he  opposed  the  Court,  under  very  strong 
conscientious  convictions  of  duty.  If  he  had  just  sat 
still,  and  refrained  from  bearing  testimony  to  what  he 
held  for  truth,  he  would  have  Got  On  much  farther 
than  he  ever  did.  I  am  very  sure  the  good  man 
never  regretted  that  he  had  acted  honestly  ! 

Judicious  obscurity  is  often  a  reason  for  advancing 
a  man.  You  know  nothing  to  his  prejudice.  Emi 
nent  men  have  always  some  enemies  ;  there  are  those 
who  will  secretly  hate  them  just  because  they  are 
eminent ;  and  no  one  can  say  how  or  when  the  most 
insignificant  enemy  may  have  an  opportunity  to  put  a 
spoke  in  the  wheel,  and  upset  the  coach  in  which  an 
eminent  man  is  advancing  to  what  would  have 
crowned  his  life.  While  nothing  can  be  more  certain 
than  that  if  you  know  nothing  at  all  about  a  man,  you 
know  no  harm  of  him.  There  are  many  people  who 
will  oppose  a  man  seeking  for  any  end,  just  because 
they  know  him.  They  don't  care  about  a  total  stran 
ger  gaining  the  thing  desired  ;  but  they  cannot  bear 
that  any  one  they  know  should  reach  it.  They  can 
not  make  up  their  mind  to  that.  You  remember  a 
curious  fact  brought  out  by  Cardinal  Wiseman  in  his 
"  Lives  of  the  Last  Four  Popes."  There  are  certain 
European  kings  who  have  the  right  to  veto  a  Pope. 
Though  the  choice  of  the  conclave  fall  on  him,  these 
kings  can  step  in  and  say,  No.  They  are  called  to 
give  no  reason.  They  merely  say,  Whoever  is  to  be 
Pope,  it  shall  not  be  that  man.  And  the  Cardinal 


GETTING  ON.  207 

shows  us,  that  as  surely  as  any  man  seems  likely  to 
be  elected  Pope  who  has  ever  been  Papal  Ambassa 
dor  at  the  court  of  any  of  those  kings,  so  surely  does 
the  king  at  whose  court  he  was  veto  him  !  In  short, 
the  king  is  a  man  ;  and  he  cannot  bear  that  any  one 
he  knows  should  be  raised  to  the  mystical  dignity  of 
the  Papacy.  But  the  monarch  has  no  objection  to 
the  election  of  a  man  whom  he  knows  nothing  about. 
And  as  the  more  eminent  cardinals  are  sure  to  have 
become  known,  more  or  less  intimately,  to  all  the 
kings  who  have  the  right  to  veto,  the  man  elected 
Pope  is  generally  a  very  obscure  and  insignificant 
Cardinal.  Then  there  is  a  pleasant  feeling  of  superi 
ority  and  patronage  in  advancing  a  small  man,  a  man 
smaller  than  yourself.  You  may  have  known  men 
who  were  a  good  deal  consulted  as  to  the  filling  up  of 
vacant  offices  in  their  own  profession,  who  made  it 
their  rule  strongly  to  recommend  men  whose  talent 
was  that  of  decent  mediocrity,  and  never  to  mention 
men  of  really  shining  ability.  And  if  you  suggest  to 
them  the  names  of  two  or  three  persons  of  very  high 
qualifications,  as  suitable  to  fill  the  vacant  place,  you 
will  find  the  most  vigorous  methods  instantly  em 
ployed  to  make  sure  that  whoever  may  be  success 
ful,  it  shall  not  be  one  of  these.  "  Oh,  he  would 
never  do  !  " 

It  is  worth  remembering,  as  further  proof,  how  little 
you  can  count  on  any  means  certainly  conducing  to 
the  end  of  Getting  On,  that  the  most  opposite  courses 


208  GETTING  ON. 

of  conduct  have  led  men  to  great  success.  To  be  the 
toady  of  a  great  man  is  a  familiar  art  of  self-advance 
ment.  There  once  was  a  person  who  by  doing  ex 
tremely  dirty  work  for  a  notorious  peer,  attained  a 
considerable  place  in  the  government  of  this  country. 
But  it  is  a  question  of  luck,  after  all.  Sometimes  it 
has  been  the  making  of  a  man,  to  insult  a  Duke,  or  to 
bully  a  Chief  Justice.  It  made  him  a  popular  favorite  ; 
it  enlisted  general  sympathy  on  his  side  ;  it  gained  him 
credit  for  nerve  and  courage.  But  public  feeling,  and 
the  feeling  of  the  dispensers  of  patronage  in  all  walks 
of  life,  oscillates  so  much,  that  at  different  times,  the 
most  contradictory  qualities  may  commend  a  man  for 
preferment.  You  may  have  known  a  man  who  was 
much  favored  by  those  in  power,  though  he  was  an 
extremely  outspoken,  injudicious,  and  almost  reckless 
person.  It  is  only  at  rare  intervals  that  such  a  man 
finds  favor ;  a  grave,  steady,  and  reliable  man,  who 
will  never  say  or  do  anything  outrageous,  is  for  the 
most  part  preferred.  And  now  and  then  you  may  find 
a  highly  cultivated  congregation,  wearied  by  having  had 
for  its  minister  for  many  years  a  remarkably  correct 
and  judicious  though  tiresome  preacher,  making  choice 
for  his  successor  of  a  brilliant  and  startling  orator, 
very  deficient  in  taste  and  sense.  A  man's  luck,  in  all 
these  cases,  will  appear,  if  it  bring  him  into  notice  just 
at  the  time  when  his  special  characteristics  are  held 
in  most  estimation.  If  for  some  specific  purpose,  you 
desire  to  have  a  horse  which  has  only  three  legs,  it  is 


GETTING   ON.  209 

plain  that  if  two  horses  present  themselves  for  your 
choice,  one  with  three  legs  and  the  other  with  four, 
you  will  select  and  prefer  the  animal  with  three.  It 
will  be  the  best,  so  far  as  it  concerns  you.  And  its 
good  luck  will  appear  in  this  :  that  it  has  come  to  your 
notice  just  when  your  liking  happened  to  be  a  some 
what  peculiar  one.  In  like  manner,  you  may  find 
people  say,  In  filling  up  this  place  at  the  present  time, 
we  don't  want  a  clever  man,  or  a  well-informed  man, 
or  an  accomplished  and  presentable  man  ;  we  want  a 
meek  man,  a  humble  man,  a  man  who  will  take  snub 
bing  freely,  a  rough  man,  a  man  like  ourselves.  And 
I  have  known  many  cases,  in  which,  of  several  com 
petitors,  one  was  selected  ju.-t  for  the  possession  or 
qualities  which  testified  his  inferiority  to  the  others. 
But  then,  in  this  case,  that  which  was  absolutely  the 
worst,  was  the  best  for  the  particular  case.  The  people 
wanted  a  horse  with  three  legs,  and  when  such  an  ani 
mal  presented  itself  they  very  naturally  preferred  him 
to  the  other  horses  which  had  four  legs.  The  horses 
with  four  legs  naturally  complained  of  the  choice,  and 
thought  themselves  badly  used  when  the  screw  was 
taken  in  preference.  They  were  wrong.  There  are 
places  for  which  a  rough  man  is  better  than  a  smooth 
one ;  a  dirty  man  than  a  clean  one ;  in  the  judgment 
(that  is)  of  the  people  who  have  the  filling  up  of  the 
place.  I  certainly  think  their  judgment  is  wrong.  But 
it  is  their  judgment,  and  of  course  they  act  upon  it... 
As  regards  the  attainment  of  very  great  and  unusual 
14 


210  GETTING  ON. 

wealth,  by  business  or  the  like,  it  is  very  plain  how 
much  there  is  of  luck.  A  certain  degree  of  business 
talent  is  of  course  necessary,  in  the  man  who  rises  in  a 
few  years  from  nothing  to  enormous  wealth  ;  but  it  is 
Providence  that  says  who  shall  draw  the  great  prize  ; 
for  other  men  with  just  as  much  ability  and  industry 
entirely  fail.  Talent  and  industry  in  business  may 
make  sure,  unless  in  very  extraordinary  circumstances, 
of  decent  success  ;  but  Providence  fixes  who  shall  make 
four  hundred  thousand  a  year.  The  race  is  not  to  the 
swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong,  nor  riches  to  men  of 
understanding  ;  that  isj  their  riches  are  not  necessarily 
in  proportion  to  their  understanding  Trickery  and 
cheating,  not  crossed  by  ill-luck,  may  gain  great  wealth. 
I  shall  not  name  several  instances  which  will  occur  to 
every  one.  But  I  suppose,  my  friend,  that  you  and 
I  would  cut  off  our  right  hand  before  we  should  Get 
On  in  worldly  wealth  by  such  means  as  these.  You 
must  make  up  your  mind,  however,  that  you  will  not 
be  envious  when  you  see  the  fine  house,  and  the  horses 
and  carriages  of  some  successful  trickster.  All  this 
indeed  might  have  been  had  ;  but  you  would  not  have 
it  at  the  price.  That  worldly  success  is  a  great  deal 
too  dear,  which  is  to  be  gained  only  by  sullying  your 
integrity !  And  I  gladly  believe  that  I  know  many 
men,  whom  no  material  bribe  would  tempt  to  what  is 
mean  or  dishonest. 

There    is    something   curious  in  the  feeling  which 
many  people  cherish  towards  an  acquaintance  who  be- 


GETTING  ON.  211 

comes  a  successful  man.  Getting  On  gives  some  people 
mortal  offence.  To  them,  success  is  an  unpardonable 
crime.  They  absolutely  hate  the  man  that  Gets  On. 
Timon,  you  remember,  lost  the  affection  of  tho-e  who 
knew  him,  when  he  was  ruined  ;  but  depend  upon  it, 
there  are  those  who  would  have  hated  Timon  much 
worse  had  he  suddenly  met  some  great  piece  of  good 
fortune.  I  have  already  said  that  these  envious  and 
malicious  people  can  better  bear  the  success  of  a  man 
whom  they  do  not  know.  They  cannot  stand  it,  when 
an  old  school-companion  shoots  ahead.  They  cannot 
stand  it,  when  a  man  in  their  own  profession  attains  to 
eminence.  They  diligently  thwart  such  an  one's  plans, 
and  then  chuckle  over  their  failure,  saying,  with  looks 
of  deadly  malice,  "  Ah,  this  will  do  him  a  great  deal 
of  good  ! " 

But  now,  my  reader,  I  am  about  to  stop.  Let  me 
briefly  sum  up  my  philosophy  of  Getting  On.  It  is 
this :  A  wise  man  in  this  world  will  not  set  his  heart 
on  Getting  On,  and  will  not  push  very  much  to  Get 
On.  He  will  do  his  best,  and  humbly  take  with 
thankfulness  what  the  Hand  above  sends  him.  It  is 
not  worth  while  to  push.  The  whole  machinery  that 
tends  to  earthly  success,  is  so  capricious  and  uncertain 
in  its^  action,  that  no  man  can  count  upon  it,  and  no 
wise  man  will.  A  chance  word,  a  look,  the  turning  of 
a  straw,  may  make  your  success  or  mar  it.  A  man 
meets  you  on  the  street  and  says,  Who  is  the  person 


212  GETTING  ON. 

for  such  a  place,  great  or  small  ?  You  suddenly  think 
of  somebody,  and  say  He  is  your  man,  and  the  thing 
is  settled.  A  hundred  poor  fellows  are  disappointed. 
You  did  not  know  about  them,  or  their  names  did  not 
occur  to  you.  You  put  your  hand  into  a  hat,  and  drew 
out  a  name.  You  stuck  a  hook  into  your  memory,  and 
this  name  came  out.  And  that  has  made  the  man's 
fortune.  And  the  upshot  of  the  whole  matter  is,  that 
such  an  infinitude  of  little  fortuitous  circumstances 
may  either  further  or  prevent  our  Getting  On  ;  the 
whole  game  is  so  complicated,  that  the  right  and  happy 
course  is  humbly  to  do  your  duty  and  leave  the  issue 
with  God.  Let  me  say  it  again :  "  Seekest  thou  great 
things  for  thyself?  Seek  them  not!  "  It  is  not  worth 
while.  All  your  seeking  will  not  make  you  sure  of 
getting  them  ;  the  only  things  you  will  make  sure  of 
will  be  fever  and  toil  and  suspense.  We  shall  not 
push,  or  scheme,  or  dodge,  for  worldly  success.  We 
shall  succeed  exactly  as  well,  and  we  shall  save  our 
selves  much  that  is  wearisome  and  degrading.  Let  us 
trust  in  God,  my  friend,  and  do  right ;  and  we  shall 
Get  On  as  much  as  He  thinks  good  for  us.  And  it  is 
not  the  greatest  thing  to  Get  On.  I  mean,  to  Get  On 
in  matters  that  begin  and  end  upon  this  world.  There 
is  a  progress  in  which  we  are  sure  of  success,  if  we 
earnestly  aim  at  it ;  which  is  the  best  Getting  On  of 
all.  Let  us  "  grow  in  grace."  Let  us  try  by  God's 
aid  to  grow  better,  kinder,  humbler,  more  patient,  more 
earnest  to  do  good  to  all.  If  the  germ  of  the  better 


GETTING  ON.  213 

life  be  implanted  in  us  by  the  Blessed  Spirit,  and 
tended  by  Him  day  by  day;  if  we  trust  our  Saviour 
and  love  our  God,  then  our  whole  existence,  here  and 
hereafter,  will  be  a  glorious  progress  from  good  to 
better.  We  shall  always  be  Getting  On ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
AT  THE   LAND'S  END. 

>UST  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago,  an  aged 
man,  the  most  intelligent  and  pleasant  of 
hostlers,  zealous  in  Methodism,  and  skilled 
in  the  characteristics  of  horses,  said  to 
the  present  writer,  "  Stand  on  that  rock."  And  as  he 
said  the  words,  he  pointed  to  a  little  flat  expanse  of 
granite,  three  or  four  feet  square.  The  present  writer 
obeyed.  And  then  the  aged  and  intelligent  man  added, 
emphatically  and  solemnly,  "  Now,  sir,  you  are  stand 
ing  on  THE  LAND'S  HEND." 

When  I  used  continually  to  read  the  life  of  that 
great  and  good  man,  Dr.  Arnold,  (to  whom,  and  to 
whose  biographer,  many  thousands  of  human  beings 
owe  some  of  the  most  healthful  influence  that  ever 
went  to  ameliorate  their  heart  and  life,\  I  remember 
thinking,  a  good  many  times,  that  one  subject  in  a  list 
of  subjects  for  English  verses  to  be  prescribed  to  the 
boys  of  the  sixth  class,  was  a  most  suggestive  one.  It 
was,  as  the  intelligent  reader  has  anticipated,  The 
Land's  End. 


AT  THE  LAND'S  END.  215 

One  had  a  vague  idea,  that  a  great  many  fine  things 
were  to  be  said  upon  lhat  subject.  But  if  I  ever 
thought  what  they  were,  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  they 
have  quite  vanished  from  remembrance  now.  At  pres 
ent,  I  can  only  look  and  feel,  in  a  very  confused 
fashion.  For  this  is  the  Land's  End.  Here  I  am,  on 
the  extreme  verge  of  England ;  this  paper  is  laid  on  a 
rough  granite  rock,  in  a  little  recess  which  keeps  off 
the  wind.  All  this  little  headland  is  granite,  shattered 
and  splintered  as  if  by  lightning.  The  granite  is  in 
many  places  covered  with  lichens ;  and  here  and  there 
a  bright  sprig  of  heather  looks  out  from  a  little  nook 
in  which  it  has  been  able  to  root  itself.  The  sea  is 
roaring  eighty  feet  below.  Eighty  feet  make  all  the 
elevation  ;  of  course  the  mere  height  is  very  poor 
when  compared  with  that  of  many  bits  of  the  Scotch 
coast.  The  descent  to  the  sea  is  perpendicular ;  the 
sea  below  is  not  deep  just  at  this  point.  Out,  a  mile 
arid  a  half  from  shore,  you  might  see  the  Longships 
Rocks ;  detached  islets  rising  in  a  line,  very  sharply 
out  of  the  sea,  and  running  up  almost  into  spires.  On 
one  of  them  is  a  light-house.  Three  men  live  in  it.  A 
few  years  ago,  a  young  man  who  had  been  absent  from 
his  family  for  twelve  years,  came  back  to  visit  his  old 
home  hard  by.  His  father  was  one  of  the  keepers  of 
the  light-house,  and  as  it  was  his  turn  to  take  charge  of 
the  lights  that  month,  he  could  not  come  ashore  to  see 
his  son  till  a  few  days  should  pass.  The  morning  after 
the  son's  arrival,  it  was  too  stormy  to  go  out  to  the 


216  AT  THE  LAND'S  END. 

light-house  to  visit  his  father,  and  he  came  to  this  spot 
to  have  as  near  a  view  as  might  be  of  the  place  where 
his  father  was.  He  fell  over  the  rocks  and  was  killed. 
It  is  a  touching  story  ;  if  you  cannot  see  why,  I  need 
not  attempt  to  show  you. 

Off  on  the  right,  at  three  miles'  distance,  is  a  black- 
looking  promontory,  called  Cape  Cornwall.  When  you 
visit  the  place,  my  reader,  the  old  man  will  tell  you  it 
is  the  only  cape  in  England.  There  are  heads ;  there 
are  points  ;  there  is  a  ness  ;  but  there  is  no  other  cape. 
You  would  think  that  Cape  Cornwall  reaches  into  the 
sea  farther  than  the  Land's  End  itself;  but  your  eye 
deceives  you.  It  falls  short  of  its  more  famous  neigh 
bor  by  several  hundred  yards.  Looking  down  from 
this  recess,  you  may  see  a  number  of  rocks,  greater 
and  less,  rising  out  of  the  sea  ;  each  with  a  ring  of 
white  foam  at  its  base.  Far  out,  you  may  just  trace 
the  outline  of  Scilly  ;  for  the  day  is  not  very  clear. 

When  you  come  to  this  spot,  my  friend,  you  will 
have  all  the  sights  shown  you  by  that  most  intelligent 
old  man  already  mentioned  ;  that  is,  of  course,  if  he 
and  you  are  spared  to  meet.  You  will  see,  very  near 
the  End,  the  deep  marks  of  a  horse's  hoofs  in  the  turf, 
within  two  feet  of  the  verge.  A  stupid  and  blustering 
idiot  once  made  a  bet  that  he  would  ride  on  horseback 
to  the  Land's  End  ;  meaning  to  the  very  extremity  of 
the  little  rocky  headland.  He  forced  his  horse  down 
the  steep  and  rugged  descent  from  the  heathery  plateau 


AT  THE  LAND'S  END.  217 

above,  and  upon  the  neck  of  turf-covered  rock  that 
joins  the  headland  to  the  shore.  But  when  the  horse 
reached  this  slippery  neck,  he  testified  how  much  more 
sense  lie  had  than  the  blustering  idiot  who  rode  him, 
by  refusing  to  go  any  farther.  The  blustering  idiot 
goaded  him  with  whip  and  spur ;  and  slipping  upon 
the  short  turf,  the  poor  creature  fell ;  and  clung  by 
his  fore  feet  in  the  marks  you  see,  before  making  the 
awful  plunge  below.  The  fall  was  not  into  water,  but 
upon  sharp  rocks  ;  and  the  poor  horse  miserably  per 
ished.  I  lamented  the  horse's  fate  ;  and  I  could  not 
but  conclude  that  had  his  master  been  smashed  instead 
of  himself,  the  nobler  creature  of  the  two  would  have 
been  saved ;  and  the  loss  to  mankind  would  have  been 
inappreciably  small.  It  is  fifty-five  years  since  the 
horse's  hoofs  clung  to  that  last  hope  ;  but  the  deep 
marks  have  been  diligently  kept  clear,  and  they  remain 
as  when  the  horse  was  wickedly  killed  ;  serving  as  a 
monument  of  his  sad  fate,  and  of  what  a  brainless  fool 
his  master  was.  After  standing  on  the  rocky  table 
which  is  emphatically  styled  the  HEND,  you  will  clam 
ber  down  a  rough  path,  and  lie  down  at  all  your  length 
on  a  very  overhanging  crag.  Here  your  head  will 
project  much  over  the  sea ;  and  the  intelligent  old  man 
will  keep  a  tight  hold  of  your  feet.  And  now,  look 
ing  away  to  the  right,  you  will  discern  the  reason  why 
you  were  brought  to  this  precarious  position.  You 
will  see  that  the  rocky  neck  joining  the  End  to  the 
shore,  is  penetrated  clear  through  by  a  lofty  Gothic 


218  AT   THE  LAND'S    END. 

arch,  through  which  the  waves  fret  in  foam.  You 
will  be  told  of  ano'.her  lesser  arch,  which  you  cannot 
see.  These  have  been  worn  in  the  lapse  of  ages;  and 
some  day,  if  the  world  stands,  the  superincumbent  rock 
will  fall,  and  the  Land's  End  will  become  a  l.ttle  rocky 
islet.  You  can  see  many  traces  in  the  rocks  near, 
of  the  like  having  happened  before.  Doubtless  the 
Cornwall  coast  once  reached  at  least  as  far  seaward  as 
those  Longships  Rocks.  And  corning  up  from  this 
spot,  you  will  reach  the  neck  once  more  ;  and  here  the 
old  man  (skilful  hostler  and  zealous  Methodist),  if  he 
thinks  you  a  fit  person  so  to  distinguish  ;  if  he  sees 
you  are  a  man  or  a  woman  who  can  sympathize  with 
him  and  understand  him  ;  will  point  with  reverence 
to  a  square  block  of  granite  that  looks  through  the 
turf;  arid  tell  you  that  a  good  man  whose  memory  he 
holds  very  dear,  and  whose  memory  can  be  indifferent 
to  no  human  being  who  reverences  simple-hearted 
devotion  to  the  best  good  of  his  fellow-creatures,  has 
been  before  you  here.  "  John  Wesley  stood  on  that 
stone,  and  made  verses  of  poetry,"  said  the  old  man  to 
me  ;  and  I  am  glad  to  say  that  he  then  went  on,  with 
much  simple  solemnity,  to  repeat  the  verses  from  end 
to  end.  I  doubt  not  you  know  them.  They  are  the 
verses  in  which  the  good  man  tells  us  how,  standing 
physically  "  between  two  seas ;  "  standing  on  this  nar 
row  neck  with  the  Atlantic  chafing  on  either  hand 
beneath  ;  he  remembered  that  he,  and  every  human 
being  with  him,  stands  morally  and  spiritually  between 


AT  THE  LAND'S  END.  219 

two  oceans  more  solemn  than  that  ;  and  prayed  hum 
bly  that  the  pilgrimage  might  end  well  lor  al!.  The 
writer  is  a  churchman  ;  churchman  both  by  head  arid 
by  heart  ;  but  when  he  heard  again  the  simple  lines 
(which  he  confesses  struck  him  as  extremely  poor 
when  tried  by  merely  aesthetic  rules),  he  could  not 
but  stand  reverentially  on  the  stone  where  Wesley's 
feet  had  stood  ;  and  think  of  the  old  man,  with  his 
white  hair,  his  kindly  face,  his  warm  heart,  and  his 
beautifully-starched  bands ;  and  heartily  ask,  in  a 
fashion  very  familiar  to  us  all,  for  more  of  We?ley's 
single-minded  spirit. 

And  now  I  have  sent  the  old  man  away,  thanking 
him  very  much  for  the  intelligent  and  interesting  way 
in  which  he  told  his  story;  and  I  wait  here  by  myself. 
I  have  written  these  lines  which  you  have  read,  since 
lie  departed.  At  a  spot  like  this,  a  party  of  visitors 
along  with  you  is  fatal  to  your  feeling  the  genius  of 
the  place  ;  and  after  the  most  intelligent  guide  has 
told  you  all  he  can  tell,  it  is  a  relief  to  get  rid  of  him. 
I  want  to  feel  that  I  am  here.  And  first,  I  am  aware 
that  I  am  not  disappointed.  I  went  many  miles  round 
to-day  to  see  the  Logan  Rock.  The  Logan  Rock  is 
an  imposition.  It  is  a  delusion  and  a  snare.  You 
are  told  it  is  a  mass  of  granite  weighing  eighty  tons  ; 
and  that  it  is  so  balanced  by  nature  on  a  pivot  of 
stone,  that  a  touch  from  the  hand  can  make  it  rock 
back  and  forward.  To  rock  back  and  forward  is 
apparently  an  idea  conveyed  in  Cornish  speech  by 


220  AT  THE  LAND'S  END. 

the  verb  to  log ;  and  the  Rock,  though  its  name  be 
spelled  as  above,  is  called  the  Loygin  Rock,  to  describe 
its  nature.  You  drive  or  walk  ten  miles  from  Pen- 
zance,  by  fearfully  steep  roads  the  last  miles,  till  you 
come  to  a  very  dirty  little  village  at  the  top  of  a  hill. 
I  have  seldom  seen  more  squalid  cottages.  I  wish  I 
knew  the  name  of  the  proprietor  of  the  estate  on 
which  they  are  built.  A  man,  who  has  been  lounging 
about  on  the  road  to  the  village,  approaches  as  you 
stop  at  the  door  of  tbe  neat  little  inn  ;  and  the  driver 
of  the  vehicle  which  has  borne  you  from  Penzance 
introduces  him  as  your  guide.  You  follow  him  along 
a  well-defined  path,  through  fields  of  ripening  grain, 
for  about  half  a  mile.  Then  you  come  upon  a  rocky 
height,  from  which  you  discern  the  sea  below  you  on 
two  sides,  within  two  hundred  yards.  You  can  indis 
tinctly  trace  the  outline  of  the  walls  of  an  ancient  for 
tress  upon  that  rocky  height.  Then  you  scramble 
down  upon  a  little  isthmus,  as  at  the  Land's  End  ;  the 
isthmus  spreads  into  a  little  headland,  made  of  huge 
blocks  of  granite.  On  either  hand  below  you  can  see 
a  beach  of  silvery  white  sand.  As  you  are  scrambling 
down  the  descent  to  the  isthmus,  you  observe  a  man 
leisurely  walking  up  the  opposite  ascent ;  and  you 
become  aware  of  the  extent  to  which  the  division  of 
labor  is  carried  in  that  little  Cornish  village.  One 
man  is  your  guide  to  the  Rock  ;  his  business  is  to  con 
duct  you  along  a  path  you  could  not  possibly  miss, 
even  without  a  guide.  A  second  man  waits  your  arri- 


AT  THE  LAND'S  END.  221 

val  at  the  Rock  ;  his  business  is  to  give  it  a  push  with 
his  shoulder,  and  set  it  loggin.  The  Rock  is  a  large 
mass,  which  may  possibly  weigh  eighty  tons  ;  it  cer 
tainly  does  not  look  as  if  it  did.  It  lies  on  the  land 
ward  slope  of  the  headland  which  you  reach  by  the 
isthmus.  And  when  the  man  puts  his  shoulder  to  it, 
and  gives  it  a  push,  you  may,  if  you  shut  one  eye,  and 
look  very  sharply  with  the  other,  see  the  rock  move  a 
distance  of  perhaps  one  inch  ;  possibly  two.  Let  me 
strongly  advise  the  reader  to  spare  himself  the  trouble 
of  going  to  see  that  sight. 

But  sitting  on  a  rock  at  the  Land's  End,  you  will 
not  feel  disappointed.  The  interest  here  is  not  the 
factitious  one  of  seeing  a  large  stone  moved  an  inch 
or  two.  It  is  the  interest  of  looking  at  a  wild  piece 
of  rocky  coast,  round  whose  name  there  clusters  a 
crowd  of  associations.  How  familiar  the  name  is  ; 
how  often,  when  a  child,  you  pointed  this  place  out 
on  the  map  ;  how  many  times  you  have  wondered 
what  it  would  be  like  ;  and  wondered  if  you  would 
ever  see  it !  A  quarter  of  a  mile  out  to  sea,  just  be 
low,  there  is  a  black-looking  rock  ;  on  that  rock  at  this 
minute  there  are  sitting  twelve  cormorants.  Now  and 
then  one  of  them  skims  off  over  the  sea.  The  day 
has  become  overcast ;  there  is  not  a  soul  near.  You 
cannot  help  having  an  eerie  kind  of  feeling.  You 
think  it  wonderful  to  find  yourself  here. 

Sitting  here,  I  think  of  a  passage  in  the  works  of 
the  most  pleasing  of  English  essayists,  whom  the 


222  AT  THE  LAND'S  END. 

writer  is  so  happy  as  to  call  his  friend.  You  will 
find  the  passage  in  "Friends  in  Council."  In  it,  men 
tion  is  made  of  an  old  lady,  who  firmly  believed  that 
three  pounds  given  by  her  were  equal  to  about  five 
pound  ten  given  by  anybody  else.  Her  money  had 
cost  so  much  thought  and  so  much  rigid  saving  to  get 
it  together.  Sixpence  by  sixpence  had  been  got  to 
gether  through  patient  self-denial ;  each  separate  shil 
ling  had  formed  the  matter  of  long  consideration. 
And  the  old  lady  felt  it  hard  that  the  result  of  all 
this  should  be  hardly  and  unsympathetically  expressed 
by  such  words  as  three  pounds.  Of  course  the  philo 
sophic  reader  knows  that  it  was  merely  that  the  poor 
old  lady  felt  an  interest  in  what  was  her  own,  which 
she  could  not  feel  in  what  belonged  to  anybody  else. 
Had  she  been  a  person  of  greater  enlightenment,  she 
would  have  read  in  all  her  own  little  anxieties  and 
schemings,  the  reflection  of  what  was  passing  in  the 
minds  of  those  around  her  ;  and  she  would  have  con 
cluded  not  that  three  pounds  of  her  own  were  equal 
to  six  pounds  of  a  neighbor's  ;  but  rather  that  three 
pounds,  no  matter  to  whom  belonging,  made  a  serious 
and  important  thing.  But  the  poor  old  lady's  feeling 
was  natural.  I  arn  not  able,  at  the  present  moment, 
quite  to  repress  a  feeling  entirely  like  it.  It  seems  to 
me  a  far  stranger  thing  that  I  should  be  here,  than  it 
would  be  that  any  one  of  a  great  many  people  I  know 
should  be  here.  They  are  venturesome  folk.  They  go 
about  a  great  deal.  Nothing  strikes  them  as  very  re- 


AT   THE  LAND'S   END.  223 

markable.  When  Mr.  Smith  said  in  my  hearing,  that 
something  or  other  happened  when  lie  was  going  into 
Jerusalem,  I  could  not  but  look  at  Mr.  Smith  with 
great  respect.  But  Mr.  Jones,  who  has  been  every 
where  himself,  was  quite  free  from  any  such  feeling. 
You  would  hear  or  read  quite  coolly,  my  friend,  that 
A  or  B  had  been  at  the  Land's  End.  It  is  no  great 
matter.  But  come  yourself  to  this  very  spot  where  I 
am  sitting ;  look  round  on  this  scene  on  which  I  have 
cast  my  eyes  since  I  wrote  the  last  sentence  ;  and  if 
you  be  a  homely  person  who  have  never  been  beyond 
the  limits  of  Britain,  and  who  lead  a  quiet  life  from 
day  to  day  somewhere  in  a  quiet  rural  parish  in  Scot 
land,  you  will  feel  it  curious  to  find  yourself  here. 
And  if  you  be  a  sensible  person,  you  will  not  think  it 
a  fine  thing  to  pretend  that  you  do  not  feel  it  so. 

You  remember  what  Sydney  Smith  said  of  Scot 
land.  He  said,  no  doubt,  many  things  on  that  sub 
ject  ;  but  the  thing  to  which  I  refer  is  the  state 
ment  that  Scotland  is  "  the  knuckle-end  of  England." 
There  is  a  certain  degree  of  truth  in  the  statement. 
After  you  have  spent  a  little  while  in  Surrey,  or  Sus 
sex,  or  Wiltshire,  in  a  very  richly  wooded  part  of 
either  county;  if  you  get  into  an  express  train  on  the 
North- Western  Railway  on  the  morning  of  a  summer 
day,  and  travel  on  by  daylight  through  Staffordshire 
and  Lancashire,  through  Cumberland  and  Lanark 
shire,  till  you  arrive  at  Glasgow,  you  will  be  aware 
that  Sydney  Smith's  metaphor  corresponds  with  your 


224  AT  THE  LAND'S   EXD. 

own  feeling.  You  will  be  aware  that  as  you  travel 
towards  the  North,  the  trees  are  gradually  growing 
smaller,  the  fields  less  rich,  the  whole  landscape  barer 
and  bleaker ;  you  will  remember  that  nightingales  do 
not  sing  north  of  Leeds,  and  you  will  think  of  other 
little  traces  of  something  like  a  physical  decadence. 
But  the  impression  made  upon  you  will  vary  accord 
ing  to  the  line  of  country  you  pass  through.  I  could 
take  you  to  tracts  in  Scotland  where  the  trees  and 
hedges  and  fields  are  as  rich,  and  the  air  as  soft  and 
pleasant,  as  anywhere  in  Britain  ;  and  where  you  add 
to  the  charms  of  the  sweet  English  landscape,  the 
long  summer  twilights  which  England  wants.  The 
true  knuckle-end  of  England  is  here.  And  you  will 
feel  that,  if  you  come  to  this  place  through  the  rich 
plains  traversed  by  the  Great  Western  Railway  ;  or 
(better  still)  by  that  railway  which  comes  by  Salis 
bury,  Sherborne,  and  Honiton  to  Exeter,  through  a 
country  where  at  every  turn  you  feel  you  are  look 
ing  on  a  landscape  which  is  your  very  ideal  of  beau 
tiful  England  ;  and  where  churches  and  churchyards 
abound,  so  incomparably  lovely  in  architecture  and 
situation,  that  on  a  pleasant  summer  day  one  could 
hardly  wish  for  better  than  to  sit  down  on  an  ancient 
tombstone,  and  look  for  an  hour  at  the  fair  piece  of 
gray  Gothic,  at  the  green  ivy,  and  the  great  elms. 
And  the  churches  come  so  frequently,  that  one  cannot 
but  think  of  the  happy  life  of  duty  and  leisure  which 
may  well  be  led  by  the  unambitious  country  parson 


AT  THE  LAND'S  END.  225 

there.  His  population  is  probably  so  small  that  he  is 
free  from  that  constant  sense  of  pressure  under  which 
the  clergy  in  many  places  are  now  compelled  to  live. 
He  may  write  his  sermon  without  being  worried  by 
the  thought  of  a  dozen  things  waiting  to  be  attended 
to  ;  and  he  may  sit  down  under  a  large  tree  in  the 
churchyard  and  meditate,  without  knowing  that  medi 
tation  is  a  luxury  in  which  he  has  not  time  to  indulge. 
But  come  on  towards  the  West,  and  you  will  find  the 
gradual  approach  to  the  knuckle-end.  The  juiciness 
and  richness  of  the  leg  of  mutton,  pass  slowly  into 
tendon,  skin,  and  bone.  In  Devonshire,  you  have 
Scotch  irregularity  of  outline  in  the  landscape  ;  but 
there  is  English  luxuriance  in  the  hedges  and  wild- 
flowers  ;  and  more  than  English  softness  in  the  air. 
You  enter  Cornwall,  over  Brunei's  wonderful  but  re 
markably  ugly  suspension  bridge  at  Saltash  ;  and  you 
very  soon  feel  that  you  have  reached  a  tract  entirely 
different  from  the  ideal  English  country.  The  land 
is  remarkably  diversified  in  surface  ;  steep  ups  and 
downs  everywhere ;  and  now  and  then,  as  you  fly 
along  in  the  railway  train,  you  pass  over  a  deep  nar 
row  gorge,  spanned  by  the  flimsiest  wooden  bridge 
that  ever  formed  part  of  a  line  of  railway.  Some 
times  these  gorges  are  of  vast  depth.  They  occur 
perpetually  ;  and  they  are  always  crossed  by  the  like 
unsubstantial  structures.  For  many  miles  after  en 
tering  Cornwall,  the  country  is  very  richly  wooded. 
You  may  see  all  kinds  of  forest  trees  growing  luxu- 

15 


226  AT   THE  LAND'S  END. 

riantly  ;  and  many  orchards,  thickly  crowded  with 
apple-trees.  But  after  you  have  passed  Truro,  there 
is  a  total  change.  The  engine  pants  and  struggles,  as 
it  hardly  draws  the  train  up  inclines  of  extraordinary 
steepness ;  and  you  begin  to  see  all  round  you  heather 
and  granite  ;  great  bare  stretches  of  country  with  tin 
mines  here  and  there,  and  rare  woods  of  stunted  pine. 
The  railway  brings  you  to  Penzance,  a  pretty  little 
town  ten  miles  from  the  Land's  End,  which  has  the  ad 
vantage  of  a  climate  of  wonderful  mildness.  Granite 
is  the  stone  here  ;  almost  every  building  is  formed  of 
it.  The  town  is  situated  at  one  side  of  a  considerable 
bay.  Across  the  bay,  three  miles  off,  is  St.  Michael's 
Mount,  rising  out  of  the  sea.  St.  Michael's  Mount, 
it  will  be  remembered,  was  in  former  days  the  resi 
dence  of  the  Giant  Cormoran,  whose  destruction 
formed  the  first  recorded  exploit  of  Jack  the  Giant- 
Killer.  You  leave  Penzance  and  journey  westward ; 
probably  in  a  phaeton  drawn  by  a  black  horse.  There 
is  a  rich  country  for  the  first  two  or  three  miles  ;  then 
you  enter  a  district  very  bleak  and  desolate.  The 
cottages  are  rude  and  squalid ;  the  churches,  all  of 
granite,  are  rare  and  large  ;  and  look  as  if  they  were 
accustomed  to  be  battered  by  heavy  storms.  You 
pass  through  the  last  village,  which  is  about  a  mile 
^from  the  sea ;  and  then  you  go  along  a  lane,  through 
a  great  field  whose  surface  is  made  of  granite,  heather, 
and  yellow  furze  as  short  as  heather.  You  see  the 
sea  before  you,  stretching  far  away ;  but  the  ground 


AT  THE  LAND'S  END.  227 

over  which  you  are  going  swells  so  much,  that  it  hides 
the  rocky  shore.  Passing  through  that  final  large 
field,  you  might  expect  to  come  upon  a  sandy  beach 
at  last.  At  length  you  stand  before  a  Hi  tie  cottage, 
an  inscription  on  which  tells  you  that  it  claims  to  be 
THE  LAND'S  END  HOTEL  :  and  here  you  will  find 
the  intelligent  ostler,  who  guides  you  down  a  rough 
slope,  not  very  steep,  of  granite,  furze,  and  heather, 
till,  after  two  hundred  yards,  you  come  upon  the  blunt 
promontory,  whose  extremity  is  by  preeminence  the 
End.  The  End  does  not  reach  into  the  sea  so  much 
as  a  hundred  yards  beyond  the  regular  coast  line. 
And  the  End  is  not  the  boldest  portion  of  that  rocky 
coast.  Its  height,  as  has  been  said,  is  about  eighty 
feet  perpendicular ;  while  the  rocks  on  either  hand 
must  be  in  many  places  at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty. 
And  now,  looking  back  on  the  way  you  have  come, 
you  feel  how  gradually  the  scene  around  you  grew 
barer,  as  you  came  on.  It  was  like  a  bad  man  grow 
ing  old.  Trees  and  hedges  were  left  behind  ;  corn 
fields  and  cottages  with  little  gardens  ;  for  the  beau 
tiful  churches  of  Somersetshire,  you  have  only  that 
rude  and  stern  erection  which  you  passed  a  little 
since  ;  and  now  you  have  come  to  this,  that  you  have 
no  more  than  granite,  and  furze,  and  desolate  sea.  It 
is  a  most  interesting  spot  to  come  to  visit  for  a  little 
white  ;  but  it  would  be  a  terrible  thing  to  be  con 
demned  to  live  here  for  the  remainder  of  your  life. 
I  cannot  but  think  here  of  the  unloved  and  unhonored 


228  AT  THE  LAND'S  END. 

later  days  of  some  hoary  reprobate  ;  who,  in  a  moral 
sense,  has  had  his  Somersetshire,  then  his  Cornwall, 
and  last  his  Land's  End.  And  even  though  a  man 
be  not  a  reprobate,  I  believe  that  all  life,  apart  from 
the  presence  of  religion,  is  a  going  down  hill.  It  is 
leaving  behind,  from  year  to  year,  the  trees  and  flow 
ers  ;  leaving  the  soft  green  fields  and  the  rich  hedge 
rows  ;  till  you  come  at  length  to  wastes  of  furze  and 
heather ;  and  end  at  last  in  stern  rocks  and  pathless 
sea. 

It  was  of  this  that  the  writer  thought  longest,  sitting 
at  the  lonely  Land's  End ;  and  this  was  something, 
let  me  confess,  that  never  once  occurred  to  me  when 
reading  Arnold's  life,  and  musing  on  his  theme  for 
English  verses.  Another  thing  which  will  probably 
occur  to  the  reader,  when  he  shall  visit  the  same 
place,  will  be,  what  a  solitary  and  small  being  he 
himself  will  be  there.  The  writer's  home,  at  this 
moment,  is  seven  hundred  and  forty  miles  away. 
Probably  it  is  a  good  deal  less,  if  you  could  go  in  a 
direct  line ;  but  such  is  the  tale  of  the  miles  which 
lie  has  traversed  to  reach  the  spot.  And  you  will 
know,  my  friend,  how  misty  and  how  far  away  your 
daily  life  and  your  home  will  seem,  when  you  sit 
down  by  yourself  in  any  lonely  place,  with  all  your 
belongings  hundreds  of  miles  distant.  Going  away 
alone,  you  truly  leave  great  part  of  yourself  behind. 
Your  mere  individuality  is  a  very  small  thing  in  size. 
Great  men,  such  as  kings  and  nobles,  have  occasion- 


AT  THE    LAND'S  END.  229 

ally  had  this  truth  disagreeably  impressed  upon  them. 
A  man  with  a  magnificent  estate  must  feel  as  though 
those  green  glades  and  magnificent  trees  were  a  por 
tion  of  himself,  and  as  if  you  must  see  all  these  things, 
and  add  them  to  himself,  before  you  can  understand 
how  big  an  object  he  really  is.  But  small  men  feel 
that  too.  They  feel  as  though,  to  reckon  what  they 
are,  you  must  add  to  the  little  object  that  sense  reveals 
to  you,  the  path  they  have  come  through  life  ;  the 
labor  they  have  come  through  ;  the  griefs  and  joys 
they  have  felt ;  the  atmosphere  and  the  surroundings 
amid  which  they  live  at  home.  I  thought  of  this,  one 
afternoon  last  winter.  The  ground  was  covered  with 
snow  ;  it  had  grown  almost  dark  ;  going  down  a  steep 
street,  in  which  were  a  good  many  passers-by,  I  be 
held  the  dim  form  of  a  poor  fellow  who  had  but  one 
arm.  There  he  was,  a  little  figure,  walking  along  as 
fast  as  he  could,  going  home.  You  would  have  said, 
a  more  thoroughly  insignificant  atom  of  humanity 
could  hardly  be.  But  I  knew  all  about  that  man's 
humble  home  ;  and  I  knew  how  much  depended  on 
him  there.  Not  many  weeks  before,  his  poor  care 
worn  wife  had  died ;  and  at  that  minute  he  was  going 
home  to  his  children,  four  little  things,  the  eldest  but 
seven  years  old,  to  whom  he  now  had  to  be  all.  Any 
thing  befalling  that  insignificant  man,  would  be  to 
those  four  children  an  infinitely  more  important  event 
than  the  separation  of  the  Northern  and  Southern 
States  of  America.  If  we  knew  more  about  our 


230  AT  THE  LAND'S  END. 

humblest  fellow-creatures,  my  reader ;  if  we  knew 
what  they  have  borne  and  done,  and  what  they  have 
yet  to  bear  and  do  ;  if  round  the  unnoted  little  person 
ality  there  were  even  the  dim  suggestion  of  its  cares 
and  belongings ;  we  should  feel  more  sympathy  for 
every  man  ;  —  we  should  regard  no  mortal  as  insignif 
icant.  I  sometimes  find  people  who.  talk  of  the  great 
majority  of  their  fellow-creatures  as  CADS  ;  people 
who,  in  another  country,  would  doubtless  stand  up 
vigorously  for  slavery.  Let  me  say,  that  when  I  call 
to  mind  what  I  have  known  of  those  whom  some 
heartless  fools  would  call  so;  —  when  I  think  of  their 
sufferings,  their  cares,  their  patience,  their  resignation, 
their  sacrifices  for  one  another;  —  my  feeling  towards 
the  fools  to  whom  I  have  alluded,  passes  from  con 
tempt,  and  turns  to  indignation.  Would  that  we  had 
all  some  of  the  truly  Christian  spirit  of  the  heathen 
poet,  who  told  us  how  much  of  sympathy  with  every 
thing  human  he  felt  as  incumbent  upon  him,  foras 
much  as  he  himself  was  a  man  ! 

But  now,  my  friend,  I  must  go.  I  shall  never  see 
the  Land's  End  any  more.  But  I  have  had  it  all  to 
myself  for  these  two  hours ;  and  it  has  become  a  pos 
session  forever.  Yesterday  it  was  a  vague  name ; 
now,  it  is  a  clear  picture,  and  it  will  always  be  so.  It 
is  not  in  the  least  like  what  I  had  expected.  No  per 
son  nor  place  you  ever  saw,  is  the  least  like  what  you 


AT  THE  LAND'S   END.  231 

expected.     But  now,  I  seem  to  have  known  it  for  a 
long  time.     And  it  is  like  parting  from  a  friend  to  bid 
it  good-by.     But  the  black  horse  has  rested,  and  has 
been  fed  ;  and  I  have  far  to  go  to-day. 
Good-by ! 


CHAPTER   IX. 
CONCERNING   RESIGNATION. 

IOU  know  how  a  little  child  of  three  or 
four  years  old  kicks  and  howls  if  it  do 
not  get  its  own  way.  You  know  how 
quietly  a  grown-up  man  takes  it,  when 
ordinary  things  fall  out  otherwise  than  he  wished.  A 
letter,  a  newspaper,  a  magazine,  does  not  arrive  by 
the  post  on  the  morning  on  which  it  had  been  particu 
larly  wished  for,  and  counted  on  with  certainty.  The 
day  proves  rainy,  when  a  fine  day  was  specially  de 
sirable.  The  grown-up  man  is  disappointed  ;  but  he 
soon  gets  reconciled  to  the  existing  state  of  facts.  He 
did  not  much  expect  that  things  would  turn  out  as  he 
wished  them.  Yes  ;  there  is  nothing  like  the  habit 
of  being  disappointed,  to  make  a  man  resigned  when 
disappointment  comes,  and  to  enable  him  to  take  it 
quietly.  And  a  habit  of  practical  resignation  grows 
upon  most  men,  as  they  advance  through  life. 

You  have  often  seen  a  poor  beggar,  most  probably 
an  old  man,  with  some  lingering  remains  of  respecta 
bility  in  his  faded  appearance,  half  ask  an  alms  of  a 


CONCERNING  RESIGNATION.  233 

passer-by ;  and  you  have  seen  him,  at  a  word  of  re 
pulse,  or  even  on  finding  no  notice  taken  of  his  re 
quest,  meekly  turn  away  ;  too  beaten  and  sick  at 
heart  for  energy  ;  drilled  into  a  dreary  resignation  by 
the  long  custom  of  finding  everything  go  against  him 
in  this  world.  You  may  have  known  a  poor  cripple, 
who  sits  all  day  by  the  side  of  the  pavement  of  a  cer 
tain  street,  with  a  little  bundle  of  tracts  in  his  hand, 
watching  those  who  pass  by,  in  the  hope  that  they 
may  give  him  something.  I  wonder,  indeed,  how  the 
police  suffer  him  to  be  there  ;  for  though  ostensibly 
selling  the  tracts,  he  is  really  begging.  Hundreds  of 
times  in  the  long  day,  he  must  see  people  approach 
ing  ;  and  hope  that  they  may  spare  him  a  half-penny  ; 
and  find  ninety-nine  out  of  each  hundred  pass  without 
noticing  him.  It  must  be  a  hard  school  of  Resigna 
tion.  Disappointments  without  number  have  subdued 
that  poor  creature  into  bearing  one  disappointment 
more  with  scarce  an  appreciable  stir  of  heart.  But 
on  the  other  hand,  kings,  great  nobles,  and  the  like, 
have  been  known,  even  to  the  close  of  life,  to  violently 
curse  and  swear  if  things  went  against  them  ;  going 
the  length  of  stamping  and  blaspheming  even  at  rain 
and  wind,  and  branches  of  trees  and  plashes  of  mud, 
which  were  of  course  guiltless  of  any  design  of  giving 
offence  to  these  eminent  individuals.  There  was  a 
great  monarch,  who  when  any  little  cross-accident 
befell  him,  was  wont  to  fling  himself  upon  the  floor ; 
and  there  to  kick  and  scream  and  tear  his  hair.  And 


234  CONCERNING  RESIGNATION. 

around  him,  meanwhile,  stood  his  awe-stricken  attend 
ants  ;  all  doubtless  ready  to  assure  him  that  there 
was  something  noble  and  graceful  in  his  kicking  and 
screaming,  and  that  no  human  being  had  ever  before 
with  such  dignity  and  magnanimity  torn  his  hair.  My 
friend  Mr.  Smith  tells  me  that  in  his  early  youth  he 
had  a  (very  slight)  acquaintance  with  a  great  Prince, 
of  elevated  rank  and  of  vast  estates.  That  great 
Prince  came  very  early  to  his  greatness  ;  and  no  one 
had  ever  ventured,  since  he  could  remember,  to  tell 
him  he  had  ever  said  or  done  wrong.  Accordingly, 
the  Prince  had  never  learned  to  control  himself;  nor 
grown  accustomed  to  bear  quietly  what  he  did  not 
like.  And  when  any  one,  in  conversation,  related  to 
him  something  which  he  disapproved,  he  used  to  start 
from  his  chair,  and  rush  up  and  down  the  apartment, 
furiously  flapping  his  hands  together,  till  he  had  thus 
blown  off  the  steam  produced  by  the  irritation  of  his 
nervous  system.  That  Prince  was  a  good  man  ;  and 
so  aware  was  he  of  his  infirmity,  that  when  in  these 
fits  of  passion,  he  never  suffered  himself  to  say  a  single 
word  ;  being  aware  that  he  might  say  what  he  would 
afterwards  regret.  And  though  he  could  not  wholly 
restrain  himself,,  the  entire  wrath  he  felt  passed  off  in 
flapping.  And  after  flapping  for  a  few  minutes,  he 
sat  down  again,  a  reasonable  man  once  more.  All 
honor  to  him  !  For  my  friend  Smith  tells  me  that 
that  Prince  was  surrounded  by  toadies,  who  were 
ready  to  praise  everything  he  might  do,  even  to  his 


CONCERNING  RESIGNATION.  235 

flapping?  And  in  particular,  there  was  one  humble 
retainer,  who,  whenever  his  master  flapped,  was  wont 
to  hold  up  his  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of  admiration,  ex 
claiming,  "  It  is  the  flapping  of  a  god,  and  not  of  a 
man  ! " 

Now  all  this  lack  of  Resignation  on  the  part  of 
princes  and  kings  comes  of  the  fact,  that  they  are  so 
far  like  children  that  they  have  not  become  accus 
tomed  to  be  resisted,  and  to  be  obliged  to  forego  what 
they  would  like.  Resignation  comes  by  the  habit  of 
being  disappointed,  and  of  finding  things  go  against 
you.  It  is,  in  the  case  of  ordinary  human  beings,  just 
what  they  expect.  Of  course,  you  remember  the  ad 
age  :  "  Blessed  is  he  who  expecteth  nothing,  for  he 
shall  not  be  disappointed."  I  have  a  good  deal  to  say 
about  that  adage.  Reasonableness  of  expectation  is  a 
great  and  good  thing  ;  despondency  is  a  thing  to  be 
discouraged  and  put  down  as  far  as  may  be.  But 
meanwhile  let  me  say,  that  the  corollary  drawn  from 
that  dismal  beatitude  seems  to  me  unfounded  in  fact. 
I  should  say  just  the  contrary.  I  should  say,  "  Bless 
ed  is  he  who  expecteth  nothing,  for  he  will  very  likely 
be  disappointed."  You  know,  my  reader,  whether 
things  do  not  generally  happen  the  opposite  way  from 
that  which  vou  expected.  Did  you  ever  try  to  keep 
off  an  evil  you  dreaded,  by  interposing  this  buffer? 
Did  you  ever  think  you  might  perhaps  prevent  a 
trouble  from  coming,  by  constantly  anticipating  it ; 
keeping,  meanwhile  an  under -thought  that  things 


236  CONCERNING  RESIGNATION. 

rarely  happened  as  you  anticipate  them  ;  and  thus 
your  anticipation  of  the  thing  might  possibly  keep 
it  away  ?  Of  course  you  have  ;  for  you  are  a  human 
being.  And  in  all  common  cases,  a  watch  might  as 
well  think  to  keep  a  skilful  watchmaker  in  ignorance 
of  the  way  in  which  its  movements  are  produced,  as  a 
human  being  think  to  prevent  another  human  being 
from  knowing  exactly  how  he  will  think  and  feel  in 
given  circumstances.  We  have  watched  the  work 
ing  of  our  own  watches  far  too  closely  and  long,  my 
friends,  to  have  the  least  difficulty  in  understanding 
the  great  principles  upon  which  the  watches  of  other 
men  go.  I  cannot  look  inside  your  breast,  my  reader, 
and  see  the  machinery  that  is  working  there  ;  I  mean 
the  machinery  of  thought  and  feeling.  But  I  know 
exactly  how  it  works,  nevertheless  ;  for  I  have  long 
watched  a  machinery  precisely  like  it. 

There  are  a  jrreat  many  people  in  this  world  who 
feel  that  things  are  all  wrong,  that  they  have  missed 
stays  in  life,  that  they  are  beaten,  —  and  yet  who  don't 
much  mind.  They  are  indurated  by  long  use.  They 
do  not  try  to  disguise  from  themselves  the  facts. 
There  are  some  men  who  diligently  try  to  disguise 
the  facts,  and  who  in  some  measure  succeed  in  doing 
so.  I  have  known  a  self-sufficient  and  disagreeable 
clergyman  who  had  a  church  in  a  large  city.  Five 
sixths  of  the  seats  in  the  church  were  quite  empty  ; 
yet  the  clergyman  often  talked  of  what  a  good  con 
gregation  he  had,  with  a  confidence  which  would  have 


CONCERNING  RESIGNATION.  237 

deceived  any  one  who  had  not  seen  it.  I  have  known 
a  church  where  it  was  agony  to  any  one  with  an  ear 
to  listen  to  the  noise  produced  when  the  people  were 
singing;  yet  the  clergyman  often  talked  of  what  splen 
did  music  he  had.  I  have  known  an  entirely  briefless 
barrister,  whose  friends  gave  out  that  the  sole  reason 
why  he  had  no  briefs  was  that  he  did  not  want  any. 
I  have  known  students  who  did  not  get  the  prizes  for 
which  they  competed  ;  but  who  declared  that  the  rea 
son  of  their  failure  was,  that  though  they  competed 
for  the  prizes,  they  did  not  wish  to  get  them.  I  have 
known  a  fast  young  woman,  after  many  engagements 
made  and  broken,  marry  as  the  last  resort  a  brainless 
and  penniless  blackguard  ;  yet  all  her  family  talk  in 
big  terms  of  what  a  delightful  connection  she  was 
making.  Now,  where  all  that  self-deception  is  gen 
uine,  let  us  be  glad  to  see  it ;  and  let  us  hot,  like  Mr. 
Snarling,  take  a  spiteful  pleasure  in  undeceiving  those 
who  are  so  happy  to  be  deceived.  In  most  cases,  in 
deed,  such  trickery  deceives  nobody.  But  where  it 
truly  deceives  those  who  practise  it,  even  if  it  deceive 
nobody  else,  you  see  there  is  no  true  Resignation.  A 
man  who  has  made  a  mess  of  life  has  no  need  to  be 
resigned,  if  he  fancies  he  has  succeeded  splendidly. 
But  I  look  with  great  interest,  and  often  with  deep 
respect,  at  the  man  or  woman  who  feels  that  life  has 
been  a  failure,  —  a  failure,  that  is,  as  regards  this  world, 
—  and  yet  who  is  quite  resigned.  Yes  ;  whether  it  be 
the  unsoured  old  maid,  sweet-tempered,  sympathetic 


238  CONCERNING  RESIGNATION. 

in  others'  joys,  God's  kind  angel  in  the  house  of  sor 
row, —  or  the  unappreciated  genius,  quiet,  subdued, 
pleased  to  meet  even  one  who  understands  him.  amid 
a  community  which  does  not,  —  or  the  kind-hearted 
clever  man  to  whom  eminent  success  has  come  too 
late,  when  those  were  gone  whom  it  would  have  made 
happy  :  I  reverence  and  love,  more  than  I  can  ex 
press,  the  beautiful  natures  I  have  known  thus  sub 
dued  and  resigned  ! 

Yes ;  human  beings  get  indurated.  When  you 
come  to  know  well  the  history  of  a  great  many  people, 
you  will  find  that  it  is  wonderful  what  they  have 
passed  through.  Most  people  have  suffered  a  very 
great  deal,  since  they  came  into  this  world.  Yet,  in 
their  appearance,  there  is  no  particular  trace  of  it  all. 
You  would  not  guess,  from  looking  at  them,  how  hard 
and  how  various  their  lot  has  been.  I  once  knew  a 
woman,  rather  more  than  middle-aged.  I  knew  her 
well,  and  saw  her  almost  every  day,  for  several  years, 
before  I  learned  that  the  homely  Scotchwoman  had 
seen  distant  lands,  and  had  passed  through  very 
strange  ups  and  downs,  before  she  settled  into  the 
quiet  orderly  life  in  which  I  knew  her.  Yet  when 
spoken  to  kindly,  by  one  who  expressed  surprise  that 
all  these  trials  had  left  so  little  trace,  the  inward  feel 
ing,  commonly  suppressed,  burst  bitterly  out  ;  and  she 
exclaimed,  "  It's  a  wonder  that  I'm  living  at  all  !  " 
And  it  is  a  wonder  that  a  great  many  people  are  liv- 


CONCERNING  RESIGNATION.  239 

ing,  and  looking  so  cheerful  and  so  well  as  they  do, 
when  you  think  what  fiery  passion,  what  crushing  sor 
row,  what  terrible  losses,  what  bitter  disappointments, 
what  hard  and  protracted  work,  they  have  gone 
through.  Doubtless,  great  good  comes  of  it.  All 
wisdom,  all  experience,  comes  of  suffering.  I  should 
not  care  much  for  the  counsel  of  the  man  whose  life 
had  been  one  long  sunshiny  holiday.  There  is  greater 
depth  in  the  philosophy  of  Mr.  Dickens,  than  a  great 
portion  of  his  readers  discern.  You  are  ready  to 
smile  at  the  singular  way  in  which  Captain  Cuttle 
commended  his  friend  Jack  Bun.-by  as  a  man  of  extra 
ordinary  wisdom  ;  whose  advice  on  any  point  was  of 
inestimable  value.  "  Here's  a  man,"  said  Captain 
Cuttle,  *'  who  has  been  more  beaten  about  the  head 
than  any  other  living  man  !  "  I  hail  the  words  as  the 
recognition  of  a  great  principle.  To  Mr.  Bunsby,  it. 
befell  in  a  literal  sense  ;  but  we  have  all  been  (in  a 
moral  sense)  a  good  deal  beaten  about  the  head  and 
the  heart  before  we  grew  good  for  much.  Out  of  the 
travail  of  his  nature  ;  out  of  the  sorrowful  history  of 
his  past  life ;  the  poet  or  the  moralist  draws  the  deep 
thought  and  feeling  which  find  so  straight  a  way  to 
the  hearts  of  other  men.  Do  you  think  Mr.  Tenny 
son  would  ever  have  been  the  great  poet  he  is,  if  he 
had  not.  passed  through  that  season  of  great  grief 
which  has  left  its  noble  record  in  u  In  Memoriarn  "  ? 
And  a  youthful  preacher,  of  vivid  imagination  and 
keen  feeling,  little  fettered  by  anything  in  the  nature 


240  CONCERNING  RESIGNATION. 

of  good  taste,  may  by  strong  statements  and  a  fiery 
manner  draw  a  mob  of  unthinking  hearers ;  but 
thoughtful  men  and  women  will  not  find  anything  in 
all  that,  that  awakens  the  response  of  their  inner 
nature  in  its  truest  depths  ;  they  must  have  religious 
instruction  into  which  real  experience  has  been  trans 
fused  ;  and  the  worth  of  the  instruction  will  be  in 
direct  proportion  to  the  amount  of  real  experience 
which  is  embodied  in  it.  And  after  all,  it  is  better  to 
be  wise  and  good  than  to  be  gay  and  happy,  if  we 
must  choose  between  the  two  things  ;  and  it  is  worth 
while  to  be  severely  beaten  about  the  head,  if  that  is 
the  condition  on  which  alone  we  can  gain  true  wisdom. 
True  wisdom  is  cheap  at  almost  any  price.  But  it  does 
not  follow  at  all  that  you  will  be  happy  (in  the  vulgar 
sense)  in  direct  proportion  as  you  are  wise.  I  sup 
pose  most  middle-aged  people,  when  they  receive  the 
ordinary  kind  wish  at  New-Year's  time  of  a  Happy 
New  Year,  feel  that  happy  is  not  quite  the  word ;  and 
feel  that,  too,  though  well  aware  that  they  have  abun 
dant  reason  for  gratitude  to  a  kind  Providence.  It  is 
not  here  that  we  shall  ever  be  happy  ;  that  is,  com 
pletely  and  perfectly  happy.  Something  will  always 
be  coming  to  worry  and  distress.  And  a  hundred  sad 
possibilities  hang  over  us ;  some  of  them  only  too  cer 
tainly  and  quickly  drawing  near.  Yet  people  are 
content,  in  a  kind  of  way.  They  have  learned  the 
great  lesson  of  Resignation. 


CONCERNING  RESIGNATION.  241 

There  are  many  worthy  people  who  would  be  quite 
fevered  and  flurried  by  good  fortune,  if  it  were  to 
come  to  any  very  great  degree.  It  would  injure  their 
heart.  As  for  bad  fortune,  they  can  stand  it  nicely, 
they  have  been  accustomed  to  it  so  long.  I  have- 
known  a  very  hard-wrought  man,  who  had  passed, 
rather  early  in  life,  through  very  heavy  and  protracted 
trials.  I  have  heard  him  say,  that  if  any  malicious 
enemy  wished  to  kill  him,  the  course  would  be  to 
make  sure  that  tidings  of  some  signal  piece  of  prosper 
ity  should  arrive  by  post  on  each  of  six  or  seven  suc 
cessive  days.  It  would  quite  unhinge  and  unsettle 
him,  he  said.  His  heart  would  go  ;  his  nervous  sys 
tem  would  break  down.  People  to  whom  pieces  of 
good  luck  come  rare  and  small,  have  a  great  curiosity 
to  know  how  a  man  feels  when  he  is  suddenly  told 
that  he  has  drawn  one  of  the  greatest  prizes  in  the 
lottery  of  life.  The  kind  of  feeling,  of  course,  will  de 
pend  entirely  on  the  kind  of  man.  Yet  very  great 
prizes,  in  the  way  of  dignity  and  duty,  do  for  the  most 
part  fall  to  men  who  in  some  measure  deserve  them, 
or  who  at  least  are  not  conspicuously  undeserving  of 
them  and  unfit  for  them.  So  that  it  is  almost  impossi 
ble  that  the  great  news  should  elicit  merely  some  un 
worthy  explosion  of  gratified  self-conceit.  The  feeling 
would  in  almost  every  case  be  deeper,  and  worthier. 
One  would  like  to  be  sitting  at  breakfast  with  a  truly 
good  man,  when  the  letter  from  the  Prime  Minister 
comes  in,  offering  him  the  Archbishopric  of  Canter- 
16 


242  CONCERNING  RESIGNATION. 

bury.  One  would  like  to  see  how  he  would  take  it. 
Quietly,  I  have  no  doubt.  Long  preparation  has  fit 
ted  the  man  who  reaches  that  position  for  taking  it 
quietly.  A  recent  Chancellor  publicly  stated  how  he 
felt  when  offered  the  Great  SeaL  His  first  feeling, 
that  good  man  said,  was  of  gratification  that  he  had 
fairly  reached  the  highest  reward  of  the  profession  to 
which  he  had  given  his  life  ;  but  the  feeling  which 
speedily  supplanted  that,  was  an  overwhelming  sense 
of  his  responsibility  and  a  grave  doubt  as  to  his  quali 
fications.  I  have  always  believed,  and  sometimes 
said,  that  good  fortune,  not  so  great  or  so  sudden  as 
to  injure  one's  nerves  or  heart,  but  kindly  and  equa 
ble,  has  a  most  wholesome  effect  upon  human  charac 
ter.  I  believe  that  the  happier  a  man  is,  the  better 
and  kinder  he  will  be.  The  greater  part  of  unamia- 
bility,  ill-temper,  impatience,  bitterness,  and  uncharita- 
bleness,  comes  out  of  unhappiness.  It  is  because  a 
man  is  so  miserable,  that  he  is  such  a  sour,  suspicious, 
fractious,  petted  creature.  I  was  amused,  this  morn 
ing,  to  read  in  the  newspaper  an  account  of  a  very 
small  incident  which  befell  the  new  Primate  of  Eng 
land  on  his  journey  back  to  London  after  being  en 
throned  at  Canterbury.  The  reporter  of  that  small 
incident  takes  occasion  to  record  that  the  Archbishop 
had  quite  charmed  his  travelling  companions  in  the 
railway  carriage  by  the  geniality  and  kindliness  of  his 
manner.  I  have  no  doubt  he  did.  I  am  sure  he  is  a 
truly  good  Christian  man.  But  think  of  what  a  splen- 


CONCERNING  RESIGNATION.  243 

did  training  for  producing  geniality  and  kindliness  he 
has  been  going  through  for  a  great  number  of  years. 
Think  of  the  moral  influences  which  have  been  bear 
ing  on  him  for  the  last  few  weeks.  We  should  all  be 
kindly  and  genial,  if  we  had  the  same  chance  of  being 
so.  But  if  Dr.  Longley  had  a  living  of  a  hundred 
pounds  a  year,  a  fretful,  ailing  wife,  a  number  of  half- 
fed  and  half-educated  little  children,  a  dirty  miserable 
house,  a  bleak  country  round,  and  a  set  of  wrong- 
headed  and  insolent  parishioners  to  keep  straight,  I 
venture  to  say  he  would  have  looked,  and  been,  a 
very  different  man,  in  that  railway  carriage  running 
up  to  London.  Instead  of  the  genial  smiles  that  de 
lighted  his  fellow-travellers  (according  to  the  newspa 
per  story),  his  face  would  have  been  sour  and  his 
speech  would  have  been  snappish ;  he  would  have 
leaned  back  in  the  corner  of  a  second-class  carriage," 
sadly  calculating  the  cost  of  his  journey,  and  how  part 
of  it  might  be  saved  by  going  without  any  dinner. 
Oh,  if  I  found  a  four-leaved  shamrock,  I  would  under 
take  to  make  a  mighty  deal  of  certain  people  I  know  ! 
I  would  put  an  end  to  their  weary  schemings  to  make 
the  ends  meet.  I  would  cut  off  all  those  wretched 
cares  which  jar  miserably  on  the  shaken  nerves.  I 
know  the  burst  of  thankfulness  and  joy  that  would 
come,  if  some  dismal  load,  never  to  be  cast  off',  were 
taken  away.  And  I  would  take  it  off*.  I  would  clear 
up  the  horrible  muddle.  I  would  make  them  happy  ; 
and  in  doing  that,  I  know  that  I  should  make  them 
good  ! 


244  CONCERNING  RESIGNATION. 

But  I  have  sought  the  four-leaved  shamrock  for  a 
long  time,  and  never  have  found  it ;  and  so  I  am  grow 
ing  subdued  to  the  conviction  that  I  never  shall.  Let 
us  go  back  to  the  matter  of  Resignation,  and  think  a 
little  longer  about  that. 

Resignation,  in  any  human  being,  means  that  things 
are  not  as  you  would  wish,  and  yet  that  you  are  con 
tent.  Who  has  all  that  he  wishes  ?  There  are  many 
houses  in  this  world  in  which  Resignation  is  the  best 
thing  that  can  be  felt  any  more.  The  bitter  blow  has 
fallen  ;  the  break  has  been  made  ;  the  empty  chair  is 
left  (perhaps  a  very  little  chair)  ;  and  never  more, 
while  Time  goes  on,  can  things  be  as  they  were  fondly 
wished  and  hoped.  Resignation  would  need  to  be  cul 
tivated  by  human  beings  ;  for  all  round  us  there  is  a 
multitude  of  things  very  different  from  what  we  would 
wish.  Not  in  your  house,  not  in  your  family,  not  in 
your  street,  not  in  your  parish,  not  in  your  country, 
and  least  of  all  in  yourself,  can  you  have  things  as  you 
would  wish.  And  you  have  your  choice  of  two  alter 
natives.  You  must  either  fret  yourself  into  a  nervous 
fever,  or  you  must  cultivate  the  habit  of  Resignation. 
And  very  often,  Resignation  does  not  mean  that  you 
are  at  all  reconciled  to  a  thing,  but  just  that  you  feel 
you  can  do  nothing  to  mend  it.  Some  friend,  to  whom 
you  are  really  attached,  and  whom  you  often  see, 
vexes  and  worries  you  by  some  silly  and  disagreeable 
habit, — some  habit  which  it  is  impossible  you  should 
ever  like,  or  ever  even  overlook ;  yet  you  try  to  make 


CONCERNING  RESIGNATION.  245 

up  your  mind  to  it,  because  it  cannot  be  helped,  and 
you  would  rather  submit  to  it  than  lose  your  friend. 
You  hate  the  East-wind ;  it  withers  and  pinches  you, 
in  body  and  soul ;  yet  you  cannot  live  in  a  certain 
beautiful  city  without  feeling  the  East-wind  many  days 
in  the  year.  And  that  city's  advantages  and  attrac 
tions  are  so  many  and  great,  that  no  sane  man,  with 
sound  lungs,  would  abandon  the  city  merely  to  escape 
the  East-wind.  Yet,  though  resigned  to  the  East-wind, 
you  are  anything  but  reconciled  to  it. 

Resignation  is  not  always  a  good  thing.  Sometimes 
it  is  a  very  bad  thing.  You  should  never  be  resigned 
to  things  continuing  wrong,  when  you  may  rise  and 
set  them  right.  I  dare  say,  in  the  Romish  Church, 
there  were  good  men  before  Luther,  who  were  keenly 
alive  to  the  errors  and  evils  that  had  crept  into  it,  but 
who,  in  despair  of  making  things  better,  tried  sadly  to 
fix  their  thoughts  upon  other  subjects  ;  who  took  to  il 
luminating  missals,  or  constructing  systems  of  logic,  or 
cultivating  vegetables  in  the  garden  of  the  monastery, 
or  improving  the  music  in  the  chapel,  —  quietly  resign 
ed  to  evils  they  judged  irremediable.  Great  reformers 
have  not  been  resigned  men.  Luther  was  not  re 
signed  ;  Howard  was  not  resigned ;  Fowell  Buxton 
was  not  resigned  ;  George  Stephenson  was  not  re 
signed.  And  there  is  hardly  a  nobler  sight  than  that 
of  a  man  who  determines  that  he  will  NOT  make  up 
his  mind  to  the  continuance  of  some  great  evil;  who 
determines  that  he  will  give  his  life  to  battling 


246  CONCERNING   RESIGNATION. 

with  that  evil  to  the  last ;  who  determines  that  either 
that  evil  shall  extinguish  him,  or  he  shall  extin 
guish  it !  I  reverence  the  strong,  sanguine  mind, 
that  resolves  to  work  a  revolution  to  better  things,  and 
that  is  not  afraid  to  hope  it  can  work  a  revolution  ! 
And  perhaps,  my  reader,  we  should  both  reverence  it 
all  the  more  that  we  find  in  ourselves  very  little  like 
it.  It  is  a  curious  thing,  and  a  sad  thing,  to  remark 
in  how  many  people  there  is  too  much  Resignation. 
It  kills  out  energy.  It  is  a  weak,  fretful,  unhappy 
thing.  People  are  reconciled,  in  a  sad  sort  of  way, 
to  the  fashion  in  which  things  go  on.  You  have  seen 
a  poor,  slaternly  mother,  in  a  way-side  cottage,  who 
has  observed  her  little  children  playing  in  the  road 
before  it,  in  the  way  of  passing  carriages,  angrily 
ordering  the  little  things  to  come  away  from  their 
dangerous  and  dirty  play  ;  yet  when  the  children  dis 
obey  her,  and  remain  where  they  were,  ju>t  saying  no 
more,  making  no  farther  effort.  You  have  known  a 
master  tell  his  man-servant  to  do  something  about 
stable  or  garden  ;  yet  when  the  servant  does  not  do  it, 
taking  no  notice :  seeing  that  he  has  been  disobeyed, 
yet  wearily  resigned,  feeling  that  there  is  no  use  in 
always  fighting.  And  I  do  not  speak  of  the  not  un- 
frequent  cases  in  which  the  master,  after  giving  his 
orders,  comes  to  discover  that  it  is  best  they  should 
not  be  carried  out,  and  is  very  glad  to  see  them  disre 
garded  ;  I  mean  when  he  is  dissatisfied  that  what  he 
has  directed  is  not  done,  and  wishes  that  it  were  done, 


CONCERNING  RESIGNATION.  247 

and  feels  worried  by  the  whole  affair ;  yet  is  so  devoid 
of  energy  as  to  rest  in  a  fretful  Resignation.  Some 
times  there  is  a  sort  of  sense  as  if  one  had  discharged 
his  conscience  by  making  a  weak  effort  in  the  direction 
of  doing  a  thing  ;  an  effort  which  had  not  the  slightest 
chance  of  being  successful.  When  I  was  a  little  boy, 
many  years  since,  I  used  to  think  this  ;  and  I  was  led 
to  thinking  it  by  remarking  a  singular  characteristic 
in  the  conduct  of  a  school  companion.  In  those  days, 
if  you  were  chasing  some  other  boy  who  had  injured 
or  offended  you,  with  the  design  of  retaliation  ;  if  you 
found  you  could  not  catch  him,  by  reason  of  his  su 
perior  speed,  you  would  have  recourse  to  the  following 
expedient.  If  your  companion  was  within  a  little 
space  of  you,  though  a  space  you  felt  you  could  not 
make  less,  you  would  suddenly  stick  out  one  of  your 
feet,  which  would  hook  round  his,  and  he,  stumbling 
over  it,  would  fall.  I  trust  I  am  not  suggesting  a 
mischievous  and  dangerous  trick  to  any  boy  of  the 
present  generation.  Indeed  I  have  the  firmest  belief 
that  existing  boys  know  all  we  used  to  know,  and 
possibly,  more.  All  this  is  by  way  of  rendering  intel 
ligible  what  I  have  to  say  of  my  old  companion.  He 
was  not  a  good  runner.  And  when  another  boy  gave 
him  a  sudden  flick  with  a  knotted  handkerchief,  or  the 
like,  he  had  little  chance  of  catching  that  other  boy. 
Yet  I  have  often  seen  him  when  chasing  another,  be 
fore  finally  abandoning  the  pursuit,  stick  out  his  foot 
in  the  regular  way,  though  the  boy  he  was  chasing 


248  CONCERNING   RESIGNATION. 

was  yards  beyond  his  reach.  Often  did  the  present 
writer  meditate  on  that  phenomenon,  in  the  days  of 
his  boyhood.  It  appeared  curious  that  it  should  afford 
some  comfort  to  the  evaded  pursuer,  to  make  an  offer 
at  upsetting  the  escaping  youth,  —  an  offer  which  could 
not  possibly  be  successful.  But  very  often,  in  after 
life,  have  I  beheld,  in  the  conduct  of  grown-up  men 
and  women,  the  moral  likeness  of  that  futile  sticking 
out  of  the  foot.  I  have  beheld  human  beings  who 
lived  in  houses  always  untidy  and  disorderly,  or  whose 
affairs  were  in  a  horrible  confusion  and  entanglement, 
who  now  and  then  seemed  roused  to  a  feeling  that  this 
would  not  do ;  who  querulously  bemoaned  their  miser 
able  lot,  and  made  some  faint  and  futile  attempt  to  set 
things  right ;  attempts  which  never  had  a  chance  to 
succeed,  and  which  ended  in  nothing.  Yet  it  seemed 
somehow  to  pacify  the  querulous  heart.  I  have 
known  a  clergyman  in  a  parish  with  a  bad  population, 
seem  suddenly  to  waken  up  to  a  conviction  that  he 
must  do  something  to  mend  matters,  and  set  a-going 
some  weak  little  machinery,  which  could  produce  no 
appreciable  result,  and  which  came  to  a  stop  in  a  few 
weeks.  Yet  that  faint  offer  appeared  to  discharge  the 
claims  of  conscience,  and  after  it  the  clergyman  re 
mained  a  long  time  in  a  comatose  state  of  unhealthy 
Resignation.  But  it  is  a  miserable  and  a  wrong  kind 
of  Resignation  which  dwells  in  that  man,  who  sinks 
down,  beaten  and  hopeless,  in  the  presence  of  a  recog 
nized  evil.  Such  a  man  may  be  in  a  sense  resigned, 
but  he  cannot  possibly  be  content. 


CONCERNING  RESIGNATION.  249 

If  you  should  ever,  when  you  have  reached  middle 
age,  turn  over  the  diary  or  the  letters  you  wrote 
in  the  hopeful  though  foolish  days  when  you  were 
eighteen  or  twenty,  you  will  be  aware  how  quietly 
and  gradually  the  lesson  of  Resignation  has  been 
taught  you.  You  would  have  got  into  a  terrible  state 
of  excitement,  if  any  one  had  told  you  then  that  you 
would  have  to  forego  your  most  cherished  hopes  and 
wishes  of  that  time,  and  it  would  have  tried  you  even 
more  severely  to  be  assured  that,  in  not  many  years 
you  would  not  care  a  single  straw  for  the  things  and 
the  persons  who  were  then  uppermost  in  your  mind 
and  heart.  What  an  entirely  new  set  of  friends  and 
interests  is  that  which  now  surrounds  you,  and  how 
completely  the  old  ones  are  gone !  Gone,  like  the 
sunsets  you  remember  in  the  summers  of  your  child 
hood,  —  gone,  like  the  primroses  that  grew  in  the 
woods  where  you  wandered  as  a  boy.  Said  my  friend 
Smith  to  me  a  few  days  ago,  "  You  remember  Miss 
Jones  and  all  about  that?  I  met  her  yesterday,  after 
ten  years.  She  is  a  fat,  middle-aged,  ordinary-looking 
woman.  What  a  terrific  fool  I  was  ! "  Smith  spoke 
to  me  in  the  confidence  of  friendship,  yet  I  think  he 
was  a  little  mortified  at  the  heartiness  with  which  I 
agreed  with  him  on  the  subject  of  his  former  folly. 
He  had  got  over  it  completely,  and  in  seeing  that  he 
was  (at  a  certain  period)  a  fool,  he  had  come  to  dis 
cern  that  of  which  his  friends  had  always  been  aware. 
Of  course  early  interests  do  not  always  die  out.  You 


250  CONCERNING  RESIGNATION. 

remember  Dr.  Chalmers,  and  the  ridiculous  exhi 
bition  about  the  wretched  little  likeness  of  an  early- 
sweetheart,  not  seen  for  forty  years,  and  long  since  in 
her  grave.  You  remember  the  singular  way  in  which 
he  signified  his  remembrance  of  her,  in  his  famous 
and  honored  age.  I  don't  mean  the  crying,  nor  the 
walking  up  and  down  the  garden-walk,  calling  her  by 
fine  names.  I  mean  the  taking  out  his  card,  —  not 
his  carte,  you  could  understand  that ;  but  his  visit 
ing-card  bearing  his  name,  —  and  sticking  it  behind 
the  portrait  with  two  wafers.  Probably  it  pleased 
him  to  do  so,  and  assuredly  it  did  harm  to  no  one 
else.  And  we  have  all  heard  of  the  like  things. 
Early  affections  are  sometimes,  doubtless,  cherished 
in  the  memory  of  the  old.  But  still,  more  material 
interests  come  in,  and  the  old  affection  is  crowded  out 
of  its  old  place  in  the  heart.  And  so  those  compara 
tively  fanciful  disappointments  sit  lightly.  The  ro 
mance  is  gone.  The  midday  sun  beats  down,  and 
there  lies  the  dusty  way.  When  the  cantankerous  and 
unamiable  mother  of  Christopher  North  stopped  his 
marriage  with  a  person  at  least  as  respectable  as  her 
self,  on  the  ground  that  the  person  was  not  good 
enough,  we  are  told  that  the  future  professor  nearly 
went  mad,  and  that  he  never  quite  got  over  it.  But 
really,  judging  from  his  writings  and  his  biography, 
he  bore  up  under  it,  after  a  little,  wonderfully  well. 

But  looking  back  to  the  days  which  the  old  yellow 
letters  bring  back,  you  will  think  to  yourself,  Where 


CONCERNING  RESIGNATION.  251 

are  the  hopes  and  anticipations  of  that  time?  You 
expected  to  be  a  great  man,  no  doubt.  Well,  you 
know  you  are  not.  You  are  a  small  man,  and  never 
will  be  anything  else,  yet  you  are  quite  resigned.  If 
there  be  an  argument  which  stirs  me  to  indignation  at 
its  futility,  and  to  wonder  that  any  mortal  ever  re 
garded  it  as  of  the  slightest  force,  it  is  that  which  is 
set  out  in  the  famous  soliloquy  in  Cato,  as  to  the 
Immortality  of  the  Soul.  Will  any  sane  man  say, 
that  if  in  this  world  you  wish  for  a  thing  very  much, 
and  anticipate  it  very  clearly  and  confidently,  you  are 
therefore  sure  to  get  it  ?  If  that  were  so,  many  a 
little  schoolboy  would  end  by  driving  his  carriage 
and  four,  who  ends  by  driving  no  carriage  at  all.  I 
have  heard  of  a  man  whose  private  papers  were  found 
after  his  death  all  written  over  with  his  signature  as 
he  expected  it  would  be  when  he  became  Lord  Chan 
cellor.  Let  us  say  that  his  peerage  was  to  be  as 
Lord  Smith.  There  it  was,  SMITH,  C.,  SMITH,  C., 
written  in  every  conceivable  fashion,  so  that  the  sig 
nature,  when  needed,  might  be  easy  and  imposing. 
That  man  had  very  vividly  anticipated  the  woolsack, 
the  gold  robe,  and  all  the  rest.  It  need  hardly  be 
said  he  attained  none  of  these.  The  famous  argu 
ment,  you  know,  of  course,  is  that  man  has  a  great 
longing  to  be  immortal,  and  that  therefore  he  is  sure 
to  be  immortal.  Rubbish  !.  It  is  not  true  that  any 
longing  after  immortality  exists  in  the  heart  of  a  hun 
dredth  portion  of  the  race.  And  if  it  were  true,  it 


252  CONCERNING  RESIGNATION. 

would  prove  immortality  no  more  than  the  manifold 
signature  of  SMITH,  C.,  proved  that  Smith  was  indeed 
to  be  Chancellor.  No ;  we  cling  to  the  doctrine  of  a 
Future  Life, —  we  could  not  live  without  it;  but  we 
believe  it,  not  because  of  undefined  longings  within 
ourselves,  not  because  of  reviving  plants  and  flowers, 
not  because  of  the  chrysalis  and  the  butterfly,  but 
because  "  our  Saviour,  Jesus  Christ,  hath  abolished 
death,  and  brought  life  and  immortality  to  light 
through  the  gospel ! " 

There  is  something  very  curious  and  very  touching, 
in  thinking  how  clear  and  distinct,  and  how  often  re 
curring,  were  our  early  anticipations  of  things  that 
were  never  to  be.  In  this  world,  the  fact  is  for  the 
most  part  the  opposite  of  what  it  should  be  to  give 
force  to  Plato's  (or  Cato's)  argument ;  the  thing  you 
vividly  anticipate  is  the  thing  that  is  least  likely  to 
come.  The  thing  you  don't  much  care  for,  the  thing 
you  don't  expect,  is  the  likeliest.  And  even  if-  the 
event  prove  what  you  anticipated,  the  circumstan 
ces  and  the  feeling  of  it  will  be  quite  different  from 
what  you  anticipated.  A  certain  little  girl  three  years 
old  was  told  that  in  a  little  while  she  was  to  go  with 
her  parents  to  a  certain  city  a  hundred  miles  off,  a  city 
which  may  be  called  Altenburg  as  well  as  anything 
else.  It  was  a  great  delight  to  her  to  anticipate  that 
journey,  and  to  anticipate  it  very  circumstantially.  It 
was  a  delight  to  her  to  sit  down  at  evening  on  her 
father's  knee,  and  to  tell  him  all  about  how  it  would 


CONCERNING   RESIGNATION.  253 

be  in  going  to  Altenburg.  It  was  always  the  same 
thing.  Always,  first,  how  sandwiches  would  be  made  ; 
how  they  would  all  get  into  the  carriage  (which  would 
come  round  to  the  door),  and  drive  away  to  a  certain 
railway  station  ;  how  they  would  get  their  tickets,  arid 
the  train  would  come  up,  and  they  would  all  get  into  a 
carriage  together,  and  lean  back  in  corners,  and  eat 
the  sandwiches,  and  look  out  of  the  windows,  and  so 
on.  But  when  the  journey  was  actually  made,  every 
single  circumstance  in  the  little  girl's  anticipations 
proved  wrong.  Of  course,  they  were  not  intentionally 
made  wrong.  Her  parents  would  have  carried  out  to 
the  letter,  if  they  could,  what  the  little  thing  had  so 
clearly  pictured  and  so  often  repeated.  But  it  proved 
to  be  needful  to  go  by  an  entirely  different  way  and  in 
an  entirely  different  fashion.  All  those  little  details, 
dwelt  on  so  much  and  with  so  much  interest,  were 
things  never  to  be.  It  is  even  so  with  the  anticipations 
of  larger  and  older  children.  How  distinctly,  how 
fully  >  my  friend,  we  have  pictured  out  to  our  minds 
a  mode  of  life,  a  home  and 'the  country  round  it,  and 
the  multitude  of  little  things  which  make  up  the  habi 
tude  of  being,  which  we  long  since  resigned  ourselves 
to  knowing  could  never  prove  realities  !  No  doubt,  it 
is  all  right  and  well.  Even  St.  Paul,  with  all  his  gift 
of  prophecy,  was  not  allowed  to  foresee  what  was  to 
happen  to  himself.  You  know  how  he  wrote  that  he 
would  do  a  certain  thing,  "  as  soon  as  I  shall  see  how 
it  will  go  with  me  !  " 


254  CONCERNING  RESIGNATION. 

But  our  times  are  in  the  Best  Hand.  And  the  one 
thing  about  our  lot,  .my  reader,  that  we  may  think  of 
with  perfect  contentment,  is  that  they  are  so.  I  know 
nothing  more  admirable  in  spirit,  and  few  things  more 
charmingly  expressed,  than  that  little  poem  by  Mrs. 
Waring  which  sets  out  that  comfortable  thought.  You 
know  it,  of  course.  You  should  have  it  in  your 
memory  ;  and  let  it  be  one  of  the  first  things  your  chil 
dren  learn  by  heart.  It  may  well  come  next  after  "  O 
God  of  Bethel : "  it  breathes  the  self-same  tone.  And 
let  me  close  these  thoughts  with  one  of  its  verses  : 

There  are  briers  besetting  every  path, 

Which  call  for  patient  care  : 
There  is  a  cross  in  every  lot. 

And  an  earnest  need  for  praver: 
But  a  lowly  heart  that  leans  on  Thee, 

Is  happy  anywhere ! 


CHAPTER  X. 
CONCERNING  THINGS  WHICH  CANNOT  GO  ON. 

F  course,  in  the  full  meaning  of  the  words, 
Ben  Nevis  is  one  of  the  Things  that  can 
not  Go  On.  And  among  these,  too,  we 
may  reckon  the  Pyramids.  Likewise  the 
unchanging  ocean  ;  and  all  the  everlasting  hills,  which 
cannot  be  removed,  but  stand  fast  forever. 

But  it  is  not  such  things  that  I  mean  by  the  phrase  ; 
it  is  not  such  things  that  the  phrase  suggests  to  ordi 
nary  people.  It  is  not  things  which  are  passing,  in 
deed,  but  passing  so  very  slowly,  and  with  so  little 
sign  as  yet  of  their  coming  end,  that  to  human  sense 
they  are  standing  still.  I  mean  things  which  even  we 
can  discern  have  not  the  element  of  continuance  in 
them,  —  things  which  press  it  upon  our  attention  as  one 
of  their  most  marked  characteristics,  that  they  have 
not  the  element  of  continuance  in  them.  And  you 
know  there  are  such  things.  Things  too  good  to  last 
very  long.  Things  too  bad  to  be  borne  very  long. 
Things  which  as  you  look  at,  you  say  to  yourself,  Ah, 
it  is  just  a  question  of  time  !  We  shall  not  have  you 
long ! 


256  CONCERNING  THINGS 

This,  as  it  appears  to  me,  my  reader,  is  the  essen 
tial  quality  which  makes  us  class  anything  among  the 
Things  which  cannot  Go  On :  it  is  that  the  thing 
should  not  merely  be  passing  away,  or  even  passing 
away  fast ;  but  that  it  shall  bear  on  its  very  face,  as 
the  first  thing  that  strikes  us  in  looking  at  it,  that  it  is 
so.  There  are  passing  things  that  have  a  sort  of  per 
ennial  look,  —  things  that  will  soon  be  gone,  but  that 
somehow  do  not  press  it  upon  us  that  they  are  going. 
If  you  had  met  Christopher  North,  in  his  days  of  af 
fluent  physical  health,  swinging  along  with  his  fishing- 
rod  towards  the  Tweed,  you  might,  if  you  had  re 
flected,  have  thought  that  in  truth  all  that  could  not 
go  on.  The  day  would  come  when  that  noble  and 
lovable  man  would  be  very  different ;  when  he  would 
creep  along  slowly,  instead  of  tearing  along  with  that 
springy  pace ;  when  he  would  no  longer  be  able  to 
thrash  pugnacious  gypsies,  nor  to  outleap  flying  tail 
ors  ;  when  he  would  not  sit  down  at  morning  in  his 
dusty  study,  and  rush  through  the  writing  of  an  ar 
ticle  as  he  rushed  through  other  things,  impetuously, 
determinedly,  and  with  marvellous  speed,,  and  hardly 
an  intermission  for  rest ;  when  mind  and  body,  in 
brief,  would  be  unstrung.  But  that  was  not  what  you 
thought  of,  in  the  sight  of  that  prodigal  strength  and 
activity.  At  any  rate,  it  was  not  the  thought  that 
came  readiest.  But  when  you  see  the  deep  color  on 
the  cheek  of  a  consumptive  girl,  and  the  too  bright 
eye ;  when  you  see  a  man  awfully  overworking  him- 


WHICH  CAKKOT  GO  OX.  257 

self;  when  you  see  a  human  being  wrought  up  to  a 
frantic  enthusiasm  in  some  cause,  good  or  bad ;  when 
you  find  a  lady  declaring  that  a  recently  acquired  ser 
vant,  or  a  new-found  friend,  is  absolute   perfection  ; 
when  you  see  a  church,  crowded  to  discomfort,  pas 
sages  and  all,  by  people  who  come  to  listen  to  its  pop 
ular    preacher ;    when    you    go    to    hear   the   popular 
preacher  for  yourself,  and  are  interested  and  carried 
away  by  a  sermon,  evincing  such  elaborate  prepara 
tion  as  no  man,  with  the  duty  of  a  parish  resting  upon 
him,  could  possibly  find  time  for  in  any  single  week, 
—  and  delivered   with   overwhelming   vehemence  of 
voice  and  gesture  ;   when  you    hear  of  a  parish  in 
which    a    new-come    clergyman    has    set    a-going    an 
amount  of  parochial  machinery  which  it  would  need 
at  least  three  and   probably  six  clergymen   to   keep 
working  ;  when  you  see  a  family  living  a^cat  and  dog 
life ;  when  you  see  a  poor  fellow,  crushed  down  by 
toil  and  anxiety,  setting  towards  insanity;  when  you 
find  a  country  gentleman,  with  fifteen  hundred  a  year, 
spending  five  thousand  ;  when  you  see  a  man  submit 
ting 'to  an  insufferable  petty  tyranny,  and  commanding 
himself  by  a  great  effort,  repeated  several  times  a  dny, 
so  far  as  not  just  yet  to  let  fly  at  the  tyrant's  head  ; 
when  you  hear  of  King  Bomba  gagging  and  murder 
ing    his    subjects,   amid    the    reprobation    of  civilized 
mankind  ;  when  you  see  the  stoker  of  an  American 
steamer    sitting    upon    his    safety-valve,  and  observe 
that  the    indicator    shows  a    pressure    of  a   hundred 
17 


258  CONCERNING  THINGS 

and  fifty  pounds  on  the  square  inch  of  his  boiler; 
then,  my  friend,  looking  at  such  things  as  these,  and 
beholding  the  end  impending  and  the  explosion  im 
minent,  you  would  say  that  these  are  Things  which 
cannot  Go  On. 

And  then,  besides  the  fact  that  in  the  case  of  very 
many  of  the  Things  which  cannot  Go  On,  you  can 
discern  the  cause  at  work  that  must  soon  bring  them 
to  an  end  ;  there  is  a  further  matter  to  be  considered. 
Human  beings  are  great  believers  in  what  may  be 
called  the  doctrine  of  Average.  That  is  a  deep  con 
viction,  latent  in  the  ordinary  mind,  and  the  result  of 
all  its  experience,  that  anything  very  extreme  cannot 
last.  If  you  are  sitting  on  a  winter  evening  in  a 
chamber  of  a  country  house  which  looks  to  the  north 
east,  and  if  a  tremendous  batter  of  wind  and  sleet 
suddenly  dashes  against  the  windows  with  a  noise  loud 
enough  to  attract  the  attention  of  everybody,  I  am 
almost  sure  that  the  first  thing  that  will  be  said,  by 
somebody  or  other,  in  the  first  momentary  lull  in 
which  it  is  possible  to  hear,  will  be,  "  Well,  that  can 
not  last  long."  We  have  in  our  minds,  as  regards  all 
'  things  moral  and  physical,  some  idea  of  what  is  the 
average  state  of  matters  ;  and  whenever  we  find  any 
very  striking  deviation  from  that,  we  feel  assured  that 
the  deviation  will  be  but  temporary.  When  you  are 
travelling  by  railway,  even  through  a  new  and  strik 
ing  country,  the  first  few  miles  enable  you  to  judge 
what  you  may  expect.  The  country  may  be  very  dif- 


WHICH  CANNOT   GO   ON.  259 

ferent  indeed  from  that  which  you  are  accustomed  to 
see,  day  by  day  ;  but  still,  a  little  observation  of  it 
enables  you  to  strike  an  average,  so  to  speak,  of  that 
country.  And  if  you  come  suddenly  to  anything 
especially  remarkable,  —  to  some  enormously  lofty  via 
duct,  whence  you  look  down  upon  the  tops  of  tall  trees 
and  upon  a  foaming  stream,  or  to  some  tunnel  through 
a  huge  hill,  or  to  some  bridge  of  singular  structure, 
or  to  some  tract  wonderfully  wooded  or  wonderfully 
bare,  —  you  involuntarily  judge  that  all  this  is  some 
thing  exceptional,  that  it  cannot  last  long,  that  you 
will  soon  be  through  it,  and  back  to  the  ordinary  jog 
trot  way. 

And  now,  my  friend,  let  me  recall  to  mind  certain 
facts  connected  with  the  great  order  of  Things  which 
cannot  Go  On  ;  and  let  us  compare  our  experience 
with  regard  to  these. 

Have  you  a  residence  in  the  country,  small  or  great  ? 
Have  you  ever  had  such  a  residence  ?  If  you  have 
one,  or  ever  have  had  one,  I  have  no  doubt  at  all  but 
there  is  or  was  a  little  gravelled  walk,  which  you  were 
accustomed  often  to  walk  up  and  down.  You  walked 
there,  thinking  of  things  painful  and  things  pleasant. 
And  if  nature  and  training  made  you  the  human  be 
ing  for  a  country  life,  you  found  that  that  little  grav 
elled  path  could  do  you  a  great  deal  of  good.  When 
you  went  forth,  somewhat  worried  by  certain  of  the 
little  cares  which  worry  at  the  time  but  are  so  speedily 
forgotten,  and  walked  up  and  down,  you  found  that 


260  CONCERNING   THINGS 

at  each  turn  you  took,  the  path,  with  its  evergreens  at 
either  hand,  and  with  here  and  there  a  little  bay  of 
green  grass  running  into  the  thick  masses  of  green 
boughs  and  leaves,  gently  pressed  itself  upon  your  at 
tention,  —  a  patient  friend,  content  to  wait  your  time. 
And  in  a  little  space,  no  matter  whether  in  winter  or 
in  summer,  the  path  with  its  belongings  filled  your 
mind  with  pleasant  little  thoughts  and  cares,  and 
smoothed  your  forehead  and  quieted  your  nervous 
system.  I  am  a  great  believer  in  grass  and  ever 
greens  and  gravelled  walks.  Was  it  not  pleasant, 
when  a  bitter  wind  was  blowing  outside  your  little  realm, 
to  walk  in  the  shelter  of  the  yews  and  hollies,  where 
the  air  felt  so  snug  and  calm  ;  and  now  and  then  to 
look  out  beyond  your  gate,  and  catch  the  bitter  East 
on  your  face,  and  then  turn  back  again  to  the  warm, 
sheltered  walk  !  Beautiful  in  frost,  beautiful  in  snow, 
beautiful  in  rain,  beautiful  in  sunshine,  are  clumps  of 
evergreens,  is  green  grass  ;  and  cheerful  and  health 
ful  to  our  whole  moral  nature  is  the  gravelled  walk 
that  winds  between  ! 

But  all  this  is  by  the  way.  It  is  not  of  gravelled 
walks  in  general  that  I  am  to  speak,  but  of  one 
special  phenomenon  concerning  such  walks,  and  bear 
ing  upon  my  proper  subject.  If  you  are  walking  up 
and  down  a  path,  let  us  say  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards 
long,  talking  to  a  friend,  or  holding  conversation  with 
yourself,  —  and  if  at  each  turn  you  take,  you  have  to 
bend  your  head  to  pass  under  an  overhanging  bough, — 


WHICH  CANNOT   GO  ON.  261 

here  is  what  will  happen.  To  bend  your  head  for 
once,  will  be  no  effort.  You  will  do  it  instinctively, 
and  never  think  about  the  matter.  To  stoop  even 
six  times,  will  not  be  much.  But  if  you  walk  up  and 
down  for  an  hour,  that  constant  evading  of  the  over 
hanging  bough  will  become  intolerably  irksome.  For 
a  little,  it  is  nothing  ;  but  you  cannot  bear  it,  if  it  is  a 
thing  that  is  to  go  on.  Here  is  a  fact  in  human  na 
ture.  You  can  stand  a  very  disagreeable  and  painful 
thing  for  once  ;  or  for  a  little  while.  But  a  very  small 
annoyance,  going  on  unceasingly,  grows  insufferable. 
No  annoyance  can  possibly  be  slighter  than  that  a 
drop  of  cold  water  should  fall  upon  your  bare  head. 
But  you  are  aware  that  those  ingenious  persons,  who 
have  investigated  the  constitution  of  man  with  the 
design  to  discover  the  sensitive  places  where  man  can 
feel  torture,  have  discovered  what  can  be  got  out  of 
that  falling  drop  of  water.  Continue  it  for  an  hour ; 
continue  it  for  a  day ;  and  it  turns  to  a  refined  agony. 
It  is  a  thing  which  cannot  go  on  long,  without  driving 
the  sufferer  mad.  No  one  can  say  what  the  effect 
might  be,  of  compelling  a  human  being  to  spend  a 
week,  walking,  through  all  his  waking  hours,  in  a  path 
where  he  had  to  bend  his  head  to  escape  a  branch 
every  minute  or  so.  You,  my  reader,  did  not  ascer 
tain  by  experiment  what  would  be  the  effect.  How 
ever  pretty  the  branch  might  be,  beneath  which  you 
had  to  stoop,  or  round  which  you  had  to  dodge,  at 
every  turn,  that  branch  must  go.  And  you  cut  away 


262  CONCERNING  THINGS 

the  blossoming  apple-branch ;  you  trained  in  another 
direction  the  spray  of  honeysuckle ;  you  sawed  off  the 
green  bough,  beautiful  with  the  soft  beechen  leaves. 
They  had  become  things  which  you  could  not  suffer 
to  go  on. 

Have  you  ever  been  misled  into  living  in  your 
house,  during  any  portion  of  the  time  in  which  it  was 
being  painted  ?  If  so,  you  remember  how  you  had  to 
walk  up  and  down  stairs  on  planks,  very  steep  and 
slippery  ;  howT,  at  early  morning,  a  sound  pervaded 
the  dwelling,  caused  by  the  rubbing  your  doors  with 
stones,  to  the  end  of  putting  a  smoother  surface  upon 
the  doors ;  how  your  children  had  to  abide  in  certain 
apartments  underground,  to  be  beyond  the  reach  of 
paint  and  brushes  and  walls  still  wet.  The  discom 
fort  was  extreme.  You  could  not  have  made  up  your 
mind  to  go  on  through  life,  under  the  like  conditions ; 
but  you  bore  it  patiently,  because  it  was  not  to  go  on. 
It  was  as  when  you  shut  your  eyes,  and  squeeze 
through  a  thicket  of  brambles,  encouraged  by  the  hope 
of  reaching  the  farther  side.  So  when  you  are  obliged 
to  ask  a  man  to  dinner,  with  whom  you  have  not  an 
idea  or  sympathy  in  common.  Suppressing  the  ten 
dency  to  yawn,  you  force  yourself  to  talk  about  things 
in  which  you  have  not  the  faintest  interest ;  and  you 
know  better  than  to  say  a  word  upon  the  subjects  for 
which  you  really  care.  You  could  not  stand  this, 
were  it  not  that  from  time  to  time  you  furtively  glance 
at  the  clock,  and  think  that  the  time  of  deliverance  is 


WHICH  CANNOT  GO  ON.  263 

drawing  near.  And  on  the  occasion  of  a  washing-day, 
or  a  change  of  cook,  you  put  up  without  a  murmui 
with  a  dinner  to  which  you  could  not  daily  subdue 
your  heart.  We  can  go  on  for  a  little  space,  carried 
by  the  impetus  previously  got,  and  by  the  hope  ot 
what  lies  before  us.  It  is  like  the  dead  points  in  the 
working  of  a  steam-engine.  You  probably  know  that 
many  river  steamboats  have  but  a  single  engine,  and 
that  there  are  two  points,  each  reached  every  few 
seconds,  at  which  a  single  engine  has  no  power  at  all. 
The  paddle-wheels  continue  to  turn,  in  virtue  of  the 
strong  impetus  already  given  them.  Now,  it  is 
plain  to  every  mind,  that  if  the  engine  remained  for 
any  considerable  period  at  the  point  where  it  is  abso 
lutely  powerless,  the  machinery  driven  by  the  engine 
would  stop.  But,  in  practice,  the  difficulty  is  very 
small,  because  it  is  but  for  a  second  or  two  that  the 
engine  remains  in  this  state  of  paralysis.  It  does 
quite  well  for  a  little,  but  is  a  state  that  could  not  go 
on. 

Any  very  extreme  feeling,  in  a  commonplace  mind, 
is  a  thing  not  likely  to  go  on  long.  Very  extravagant 
likes  and  dislikes,  very  violent  grief,  such  as  people 
fancy  must  kill  them,  will,  in  most  cases,  endure  not 
long.  In  short,  anything  that  flies  in  the  face  of  the 
laws  which  regulate  the  human  mind,  anything  which 
is  greatly  opposed  to  Nature's  love  for  the  Average, 
cannot,  in  general,  go  on.  I  do  not  forget,  that  there 
are  striking  exceptions.  There  are  people  who  never 


264  CONCERNING  THINGS 

quite  get  over  some  great  grief  or  disappointment ; 
there  are  people  who  form  a  fixed  resolution,  and  hold 
by  it  all  through  life.  I  have  seen  more  than  one  or 
two  men  and  women,  whose  whole  soul  and  energy 
were  so  devoted  to  some  good  work,  that  a  stranger, 
witnessing  their  doings  for  a  few  days  and  hearing 
their  talk,  would  have  said,  "  That  cannot  last.  It 
must  soon  burn  itself  out,  zeal  like  that ! "  But  if  you 
had  made  inquiry,  you  would  have  learned  that  all 
that  had  gone  on  unflagging,  for  ten,  twenty,  thirty 
years.  There  must  have  been  sound  and  deep  prin 
ciple  there  at  the  first,  to  stand  the  wear  of  such  a 
time ;  and  you  may  well  believe  that  the  whole  nature 
is  now  confirmed  irretrievably  in  the  old  habit ;  you 
may  well  hope  that  the  good  Christian  and  philanthro 
pist  who  has  gone  on  for  thirty  years  will  go  on  as 
long  as  he  lives,  —  will  go  on  forever.  But,  as  a 
general  rule,  I  have  no  great  faith  in  the  stability  of 
human  character ;  and  I  have  great  faith  in  the  law 
of  Average.  People  will  not  go  on  very  long,  doing 
what  is  inconvenient  for  them  to  do.  And  I  will  back 
Time  against  most  feelings  and  most  resolutions  in 
human  hearts.  -  It  will  beat  them  in  the  end.  You 
are  a  clergyman,  let  us  suppose.  Your  congregation 
are  fond  of  your  sermons.  They  have  got  into  your 
way;  and  if  so,  they  probably  like  to  hear  you  preach 
better  than  anybody  else ;  unless  it  be  the  two  or  three 
very  great  men.  A  family,  specially  attached  to  you, 
moves  from  a  house  near  the  church  to  another  two 


WHICH  CANNOT  GO  ON.  265 

or  three  miles  away.  They  tell  you,  that  nothing 
shall  prevent  their  coming  to  their  accustomed  places 
every  Sunday  still :  they  would  come,  though  the 
distance  were  twice  as  great.  They  are  perfectly  sin 
cere.  But  your  larger  experience  of  such  cases 
makes  you  well  aware  that  time  and  distance  and 
mud  and  rain  and  hot  sunshine  will  beat  them. 
Coming  to  church  over  that  inconvenient  distance, 
is  a  thing  that  cannot  go  on  ;  it  is  a  thing  that  ought 
not  to  go  on  ;  and  you  make  up  your  mind  to  the 
fact.  You  cannot  vanquish  the  laws  of  Nature. 
You  may  make  water  run  up-hill,  by  laborious  pump 
ing.  But  you  cannot  go  on  pumping  forever;  and 
whenever  the  water  is  left  to  its  own  nature,  it  will 
certainly  run  down-hill.  All  such  declarations  as 
" I  shall  never  forget  you ; "  "I  shall  never  cease 
to  deplore  your  loss  ; "  "  I  can  never  hold  up  my  head 
again  ; "  may  be  ethically  true ;  but  time  will  prove 
them  logically  false.  The  human  being  may  be  quite 
sincere  in  uttering  them ;  but  he  will  change  his  mind. 
I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  it  is  very  pleasant  to 
have  to  think  thus ;  or  that  much  good  can  come  of 
dwelling  too  long  upon  the  idea.  It  is  a  very  chilling 
and  sorrowful  thing,  to  be  reminded  of  all  this  in  the 
hard,  heartless  way  in  which  some  old  people  like  to 
drive  the  sad  truth  into  the  young.  It  is  very  fit  and 
right  that  the  girl  of  twenty,  broken-hearted  now  be 
cause  the  young  individual  she  is  fond  of  is  gone  off 
to  Australia,  should  believe  that  when  he  returns  in 


266  CONCERNING  THINGS 

five  years  he  will  find  her  unchanged,  and  should 
resent  the  remotest  suggestion  that  by  that  time  she 
will  probably  think  and  feel  quite  differently.  It  is  fit 
and  right  that  she  should  do  all  this,  even  though  a 
prescient  eye  could  discern  that  in  two  years  exactly 
she  will  be  married  to  somebody  else,  —  and  married, 
too,  not  to  some  old  hunx  of  great  wealth  whom  her 
parents  have  badgered  her  into  marrying  against  her 
will,  but  (much  worse  for  the  man  in  Australia,  who 
has  meanwhile  taken  to  drinking)  married  with  all  her 
heart  to  some  fine  young  fellow,  very  suitable  in  age 
and  all  other  respects.  Yet,  certain  though  the  gen 
eral  principle  may  be,  a  wise  and  kind  man  or  woman 
will  not  take  much  pleasure  in  imparting  the  sad  les 
son,  taught  by  experience,  to  younger  hearts.  No  good 
can  come  of  doing  so.  Bide  your  time,  my  friend, 
and  the  laws  of  nature  will  prevail.  Water  will  not 
long  run  up-hill.  But  while  the  stream  is  quite 
happy  and  quite  resolute  in  flowing  up  an  incline  of 
one  in  twenty,  there  is  no  good  in  standing  by  it,  and 
in  roaring  out  that  in  a  little  while  it  will  get  tired  of 
that.  Experience  tells  us  several  things,  which  are 
not  quite  to  the  credit  of  our  race  ;  and  it  is  wrong 
to  chill  a  hopeful  and  warm  heart  with  these.  We 
should  be  delighted  to  find  that  young  heart  falsifying 
them  by  its  own  history :  let  it  do  so  if  it  can. 

And  it  is  chilling  and  irritating  to  be  often  reminded 
of  the  refrigerating  power  of  Time  upon  all  warm  feel 
ings  and  resolutions.  I  have  known  a  young  clergy- 


WHICH  CANNOT  GO  ON.  267 

man,  appointed  early  in  life  to  his  first  parish,  and 
entering  upon  his  duty  with  tremendous  zeal.  I  think 
a  good  man,  however  old,  would  rejoice  at  such  a 
sight,  would  delightedly  try  to  direct  and  counsel  all 
that  hearty  energy,  and  to  turn  all  that  labor  to  the 
best  account.  And  even  if  he  thought  within  himself 
that  possibly  all  this  might  not  quite  last,  I  don't  think 
he  would  go  and  tell  the  young  minister  so.  And  the 
aged  man  would  thankfully  remember,  that  he  has 
known  instances  in  which  all  that  has  lasted ;  and 
would  hope  that  in  this  instance  it  might  last  again. 
But  I  have  known  a  cynical,  heartless,  time-hardened 
old  man  (the  uncle,  in  fact,  of  my  friend  Mr.  Snarl 
ing)  listen  with  a  grin  of  mingled  contempt  and  ma 
lignity  to  the  narration  of  the  young  parson's  doings  ; 
and  explain  the  whole  phenomena  by  a  general  prin 
ciple,  inexpressibly  galling  and  discouraging  to  the 
young  parson.  "  Oh,"  says  the  cynical,  heartless  old 
individual,  "  new  brooms  sweep  clean  !  "  That  was 
all.  The  whole  thing  was  explained  and  settled.  I 
should  like  to  apply  a  new  knout  to  the  old  individual, 
and  see  if  it  would  cut  smartly. 

And  then  we  are  to  remember,  that  though  it  be 
only  a  question  of  time  writh  the  existence  of  anything, 
that,  does  not  prove  that  the  thing  is  of  no  value.  A 
great  part  of  all  that  we  are  enjoying  consists  of 
Things  which  cannot  Go  On.  And  though  the  wear 
that  there  is  in  a  thing  be  a  great  consideration  in 
reckoning  its  worth ;  and  more  especially,  in  the  case 


268  CONCERNING  THINGS 

of  all  Christian  qualities,  be  the  great  test  whether  or 
not  they  are  genuine  ;  yet  things  that  are  going,  and 
going  very  fast,  have  their  worth.  And  it  is  very  fit 
that  we  should  enjoy  them  while  they  last,  without 
unduly  overclouding  our  enjoyment  of  them  by  the 
recollection  of  their  evanescence.  "  Why,"  said  an 
eminent  divine,  —  "  why  should  we  pet  and  pamper 
these  bodies  of  ours,  which  are  soon  to  be  reduced  to 
a  state  of  mucilaginous  fusion  ?"  There  was  a  plausi 
bility  about  the  question  ;  and  for  about  half  a  min 
ute  it  tended  to  make  you  think,  that  it  might  be 
proper  to  leave  off  taking  your  daily  bath,  and  brush 
ing  your  nails  and  teeth  ;  likewise  that  instead  of  pat 
ronizing  your  tailor  any  further,  it  might  be  well  to 
assume  a  horse-rug  ;  and  also  that  it  might  be  un 
worthy  to  care  for  your  dinner,  and  that  for  the  future 
you  should  live  on  raw  turnips.  But  of  course,  any 
thing  that  revolts  common  sense,  can  never  be  a  part 
of  Christian  doctrine  or  duty.  And  the  natural  reply 
to  the  rhetorical  question  I  have  quoted  would  of 
course  be,  that  after  these  mortal  frames  are  so  fused, 
we  shall  wholly  cease  to  care  for  them  ;  but  that 
meanwhile  we  shall  suitably  tend,  feed,  and  clothe 
them,  because  it  is  comfortable  to  do  so  ;  because  it  is 
God's  manifest  intention  that  we  should  do  so  ;  be 
cause  great  moral  and  spiritual  advantage  comes  of 
our  doing  so  ;  and  because  you  have  no  more  right  to 
disparage  and  neglect  your  wonderful  mortal  frame, 
than  any  other  talent  or  gift  confided  to  you  by  God. 


WHICH   CANNOT   GO   ON.  269 

Why  should  we  neglect,  or  pretend  to  neglect,  these 
bodies  of  ours,  with  which  we  are  commanded  to  glo 
rify  God ;  which  are  bought  with  Christ's  blood  ; 
which,  even  through  the  last  lowliness  of  mortal  disso 
lution,  even  when  turned  to  dust  again,  are  "  still  unit 
ed  to  Christ ;  "  and  winch  are  to  rise  again  in  glory 
and  beauty,  and  be  the  redeemed  soul's  companion 
through  eternity  ?  And  it  is  a  mere  sophism  to  put 
the  shortness  of  a  thing's  continuance  as  a  reason  why 
it  should  not  be  cared  for  while  it  lasts.  Of  course,  if 
it  last  but  a  short  time,  all  the  shorter  will  be  the  time 
through  which  we  shall  care  for  it.  But  let  us  make 
the  best  of  things  while  they  last ;  both  as  regards  our 
care  for  them  and  our  enjoyment  of  them. 

That  a  thing  will  soon  be  done  with,  that  the  cloud 
will  soon  blow  by,  is  a  good  reason  for  bearing 
patiently  what  is  painful.  But  it  is  very  needless  to 
thrust  in  this  consideration,  to  the  end  of  spoiling  the 
enjoyment  of  what  is  pleasant.  I  have  seen  people, 
when  a  little  child,  in  a  flutter  of  delighted  anticipa 
tion,  was  going  away  to  some  little  merrymaking,  anx 
ious  to  put  down  its  unseemly  happiness  by  severely 
impressing  the  fact,  that  in  a  very  few  hours  all  the 
pleasure  would  be  over,  and  lessons  would  begin 
again.  And  I  have  seen,  with  considerable  wrath,  a 
cloud  descend  upon  the  little  face  at  the  unwelcome 
suggestion.  What  earthly  good  is  to  come  of  this 
piece  of  stupid,  well-meant  malignity  ?  It  originates, 
doubtless,  in  that  great  fundamental  belief  in  many 


270  CONCERNING   THINGS 

narrow  minds,  (hat  the  more  uncomfortable  you  are 
the  likelier  you  are  to  be  right ;  and  that  God  is 
angry  when  he  sees  people  happy.  Unquestionably, 
most  of  the  little  enjoyments  of  life  are  very  transient. 
All  pleasant  social  gatherings  ;  all  visits  to  cheerful 
country  houses  ;  all  holidays  ;  are  things  which  can 
not  go  on.  No  doubt,  that  is  true  ;  but  that  is  no 
reason  why  we  should  sulkily  refuse  to  enjoy  them 
while  they  last.  There  is  no  good  end  secured,  by 
persisting  in  seeing  "  towers  decayed  as  soon  as  built." 
It  is  right,  always  latently,  and  sometimes  expressly, 
to  remember  that  they  must  decay  ;  but  meanwhile, 
let  us  be  thankful  for  their  shelter  and  their  beauty. 
Sit  down,  happily,  on  a  July  day,  beneath  the  green 
shade  of  your  beeches  ;  do  not  needlessly  strain  what 
littfe  imagination  you  have,  to  picture  those  branches 
leafless,  and  the  winter  wind  and  clouds  racking  over 
head.  Enjoy  your  parcel  of  new  books  when  it 
comes,  coming  not  often  ;  cut  the  leaves  peacefully, 
and  welcome  in  each  volume  a  new  companion  ;  then 
carefully  decide  the  fit  place  on  your  shelves  where  to 
dispose  the  pleasant  accession  to  your  store  ;  and  do 
not  worry  yourself  by  the  reflection  that  when  you 
die,  the  little  library  you  collected  may  perhaps  be 
scattered  ;  and  the  old,  friendly-looking  volumes  fall 
into  no  one  knows  whose  hands  ;  perhaps  be  set  forth 
on  out-door  book-stalls  ;  or  be  exhibited  on  the  top  of 
a  wall,  with  a  sack  put  over  them  when  it  begins  to 
rain,  as  in  a  place  which  I  have  seen.  "  What  is  the 


WHICH   CANNOT   GO   ON.  271 

use  of  washing  my  hands,"  said  a  little  boy  in  my 
hearing  ;  "  they  will  very  soon  be  dirty  again  ! "  Re 
fuse,  my  reader,  to  accept  the  principle  implied  in  the 
little  boy's  words,  however  specious  it  may  seem. 
Whitewash  your  manse,  if  you  be  a  Scotch"  minister, 
some  time  in  April ;  paint  your  house  in  town,  how 
ever  speedily  it  may  again  grow  black.  Write  your 
sermons  diligently ;  write  them  on  the  very  best  paper 
you  can  get,  and  in  a  very  distinct  and  careful  hand  ; 
and  pack  them  with  attention  in  a  due  receptacle.  It 
is,  no  doubt,  only  a  question  of  time  how  long  they 
will  be  needed,  before  the  day  of  your  departure  shall 
make  them  no  more  than  waste  paper.  Yet,  though 
things  which  cannot  go  on,  you  may  hope  to  get  no 
small  use  out  of  them,  to  others  and  to  yourself,  before 
the  time  when  the  hand  that  travelled  over  the  pages 
shall  be  cold  with  the  last  chill ;  and  the  voice  that 
spoke  these  words  shall  be  hushed  forever.  We 
know,  obscurely,  what  we  shall  come  to ;  and  by 
God's  grace  we  are  content,  and  we  hope  to  be  pre 
pared  ;  but  there  is  no  need  to  overcast  all  life  with 
the  ceaseless  anticipation  of  death.  You  may  have 
read  how  John  Hampden's  grave  was  opened,  at  the 
earnest  desire  of  an  extremely  fat  nobleman  who  was 
his  injudicious  admirer.  The  poor  wreck  of  humanity 
was  there ;  and,  as  the  sexton  said,  "  We  propped  him 
up  with  a  shovel  at  his  back,  and  I  cut  off  a  lock  of 
his  hair."  I  hold  with  Abraham,  who  "  buried  his 
dead  from  his  sight ; "  I  hold  with  Shakspeare,  who 


272  CONCERNING  THINGS 

desired  that  no  one  should  disturb  him  in  his  lowly 
bed,  till  He  shall  awaken  him  whose  right  it  is  to  do 
so.  Yet  I  read  no  lesson  of  the  vanity  of  Harnpden's 
life,  in  that  last  sad  picture  of  helplessness  and  humili 
ation.  He  had  come  to  that ;  yet  all  this  does  not 
show  that  his  life  was  not  a  noble  one  while  it  lasted, 
though  now  it  was  done.  He  had  his  day  ;  and  he 
used  it ;  whether  well  or  ill  let  wiser  men  judge. 
And  if  it  be  right  to  say  that  he  withstood  tyranny, 
and  helped  to  lay  the  foundation  of  his  country's  liber 
ties,  the  whim  of  Lord  Nugent  and  the  propping  up 
with  the  shovel  can  take  nothing  away  from  that. 

You  understand  me,  my  friend.  You  know  the 
kind  of  people  who  revenge  themselves  upon  human 
beings  who  meanwhile  seem  happy,  by  suggesting  the 
idea  that  it  cannot  last.  You  see  Mr.  A.,  delighted 
with  his  beautiful  new  church  ;  you  know  how  Miss 
B.  thinks  the  man  to  whom  she  is  to  be  married  next 
week  the  handsomest,  wisest,  and  best  of  mankind  ; 
you  behold  the  elation  of  Mr.  C.  about  that  new  pair 
of  horses  he  has  got ;  and  if  you  be  a  malicious  block 
head,  you  may  greatly  console  yourself  in  the  specta 
cle  of  the  happiness  of  those  individuals,  by  reflecting, 
and  perhaps  by  saying,  that  it  is  all  one  of  those  things 
that  cannot  go  on.  Mr.  A.  will  in  a  few  months  find 
no  end  of  worry  about  that  fine  building  ;  Miss  B.'s 
husband,  at  present  transfigured  to  her  view,  will  set 
tle  into  the  very  ordinary  being  he  is  ;  and  Mr.  C.'s 


WHICH  CANNOT  GO  ON.  273 

horses  will  prove  occasionally  lame,  and  one  of  them  a 
permanent  roarer.  Yet  I  think  a  wise  man  may  say, 
I  am  aware  I  cannot  go  on  very  long  ;  yet  I  shall  do 
my  best  in  my  little  time.  I  look  at  the  right  hand 
which  holds  my  pen.  The  pen  will  last  but  for  a 
short  space  ;  yet  that  is  no  reason  why  I  should  slight 
it  now.  The  hand  may  go  on  longer.  Yet,  warm  as 
it  is  now,  and  faithfully  obeying  my  will  as  it  has 
done,  through  all  those  years,  the  day  is  coming  when 
it  must  cease  from  its  long  labors.  And,  for  myself,  I 
am  well  content  that  it  should  be  so.  Let  us  not 
strive  against  the  silent  current,  that  bears  us  all  away 
and  away.  Let  us  not  quarrel  with  the  reminders  we 
meet  on  many  country  gravestones,  addressed  unto  us 
who  are  living  from  the  fathers  who  have  gone  before. 
Yet  you  will  think  of  Charles  Lamb.  He  said  (but 
nobody  can  say  when  Elia  meant  what  he  said),  "  I 
conceive  disgust  at  those  impertinent  and  unbecoming 
familiarities,  inscribed  upon  your  ordinary  tombstones. 
Every  dead  man  must  take  upon  himself  to  be  lectur 
ing  me  with  his  odious  truism,  that  '  Such  as  he  now 
is  I  must  shortly  be.'  Not  so  shortly,  friend,  perhaps, 
as  thou  imaginest.  In  the  mean  time  I  am  alive.  I 
move  about.  I  am  worth  twenty  of  thee.  Know  thy 
betters  ! " 

You  may  look  on  somewhat  further,  in  a  sweet 
country  burying-place.  Dear  old  church-yard,  once 
so  familiar,  with  the  old  oaks  and  the  gliding  river, 
and  the  purple  hill  looking  over ;  where  the  true 

18 


274  CONCERNING   THINGS 

heart  of  Jeanie  Deans  has  mouldered  into  dust ;  I 
wonder  what  you  are  looking  like  to-day  !  Many  a 
time  have  I  sat,  in  the  quiet  summer  day,  on  a  flat 
stone,  and  looked  at  the  green  graves  ;  and  thought 
that  they  were  Things  that  could  not  Go  On  !  There 
were  the  graves  of  my  predecessors  ;  the  day  would 
come  when  old  people  in  the  parish  would  talk,  not 
unkindly,  of  the  days,  long  ago,  when  some  one  was 
minister  whose  name  is  neither  here  nor  there.  But 
it  was  a  much  stranger  thing  to  think,  in  that  silent 
and  solitary  place,  of  the  great  stir  and  bustle  there 
shall  be  in  it  some  day  !  Here  it  has  been  for  centu 
ries  ;  the  green  mossy  stones  and  the  little  grassy  un 
dulations.  But  we  know,  from  the  best  of  all  author 
ity,  that  "  the  hour  is  coming "  which  shall  make  a 
total  change.  This  quiet,  this  decay,  this  forgetful- 
ness,  are  not  to  Go  On  ! 

We  look  round,  my  reader,  on  all  our  possessions, 
and  all  our  friends,  and  we  discern  that  there  are  the 
elements  of  change  in  all.  "  I  am  content  to  stand 
still,"  says  Elia,  "at  the  age  to  which  I  am  arrived,  —  I 
and  my  friends  ;  to  be  no  younger,  no  richer,  no  hand 
somer.  I  do  not  want  to  be  weaned  by  age,  or  drop 
like  mellow  fruit  into  the  grave."  There  are  indeed 
moods  of  mind  in  which  all  thoughtful  men  have  pos 
sibly  yielded  to  a  like  feeling ;  but  I  never  heard  but 
of  one  other  man  whose  deliberate  wish  was  just  to  go 
on  in  this  round  of  life  forever.  Yet,  though  content 
to  be  in  the  wise  and  kind  hands  in  which  we  are,  we 


WHICH   CANNOT   GO   OX.  275 

feel  it  strange  to  find  how  all  things  are  going.  Your 
little  children,  my  friend,  are  growing  older,  —  growing 
out  of  their  pleasant  and  happy  childhood  ;  the  old 
people  round  you  are  wrinkling  up  and  breaking  down. 
And  in  your  constitution,  in  your  way  of  life,  there  are 
things  which  cannot  go  on.  There  is  some  little  phys 
ical  malady,  always  rather  increasing  ;  and  you  cannot 
always  be  enlarging  the  doses  of  the  medicine  that  is 
to  correct  it,  or  the  opiates  which  make  you  sleep.  I 
confess,  with  sorrow,  that  when  I  see  an  extraordina 
rily  tidy  garden,  or  a  man  dressed  with  special  trim- 
ness,  I  cannot  help  looking  forward  to  a  day  when  all 
that  is  to  cease  ;  when  the  man  will  be  somewhat  slov 
enly,  —  when  the  garden  will  be  somewhat  weedy.  I 
think  especially  of  the  garden  ;  and  the  garden  which 
comes  most  home  to  me  is  the  manse  garden.  It  was 
a  marvel  of  exquisite  neatness  and  order ;  but  a  new 
minister  comes,  who  does  not  care  for  gardening,  and 
all  that  goes.  And  though  rejoicing  greatly  to  see  a 
parish  diligently  worked,  yet  sometimes  I  behold  the 
parochial  machinery  driven  with  such  a  pressure  of 
steam,  that  I  cannot  but  think  it  never  will  last.  I 
have  known  men  who  never  could  calmly  think  ;  who 
lived  in  a  hurry  and  a  fever.  There  are  places  where 
it  costs  a  constant  effort,  not  always  a  successful  effort, 
to  avoid  coming  to  such  a  life  ;  but  let  us  strive  against 
it.  Let  us  not  have  constant  push  and  excitement 
and  high  pressure.  I  hate  to  feel  a  whir  around  me, 
as  of  a  huge  cotton-mill.  Let  us  "  study  to  be  quiet ! " 


276  CONCERNING  THINGS 

And  I  have  observed  that  clergymen  who  set  that  fe 
verish  machinery  a-going,  generally  find  it  expedient  to 
get  away  from  it  as  speedily  as  may  be,  so  as  to  avoid 
the  discredit  of  its  breaking  down  in  their  hands, — 
being  well  aware  that  it  is  a  thing  which  cannot  go  on. 
We  cannot  always  go  on  at  a  tearing  gallop,  with  every 
nerve  tense.  Probably  we  are  doing  so  a  great  deal 
too  much.  If  so,  let  us  definitively  moderate  our  pace 
before  the  pace  kills  us. 

"  It's  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning,"  says  the  prov 
erb,  testifying  to  the  depth  of  human  belief  in  the 
Average,  testifying  to  our  latent  conviction  that  any 
thing  very  marked  is  not  likely  to  go  on.  A  great 
many  people,  very  anxious  and  unhappy  and  disap 
pointed,  cherish  some  confused  hope  that  surely  all 
this  has  lasted  so  long,  things  must  be  going  to  mend. 
The  night  has  been  so  long,  that  morning  must  be 
near,  even  though  there  be  not  the  least  appearance  of 
the  dawn  as  yet.  If  you  have  been  a  briefless  barris 
ter,  or  an  unemployed  physician,  or  an  unbeneficed 
clergyman  for  a  pretty  long  time,  even  though  there 
be  no  apparent  reason  now,  more  than  years  since, 
why  success  should  come,  you  are  ready  to  think  that 
surely  it  must  be  coming  now,  at  last.  It  seems  to  be 
overdue,  by  the  theory  of  Average.  Yet  it  is  by  no 
means  certain  that  there  is  a  good  time  coming,  because 
the  bad  time  has  lasted  long.  Still,  it  is  sometimes  so. 
I  have  known  a  man  very  laborious,  very  unfortunate, 
with  whom  everything  failed ;  and  after  some  years  of 


WHICH   CANNOT   GO   ON.  277 

this,  I  have  seen  a  sudden  turn  of  fortune  come.  And 
with  exactly  the  same  merit  and  the  same  industry  as 
before,  I  have  beheld  him  succeed  in  all  he  attempted, 
and  gain  no  small  eminence  and  reputation.  "  It  be 
hoved  him  to  dree  his  weird,"  as  was  said  by  Meg 
Merrilies ;  and  then  the  good  time  came.  If  you  are 
happy,  my  reader,  I  wish  your  happiness  may  last. 
And  if  you  are  meanwhile  somewhat  down  and  de 
pressed,  let  us  hope  that  all  this  may  prove  one  of  the 
Things  which  cannot  Go  On  ! 

"  Shall  I  go  on  ?  "  said  Sterne,  telling  a  touching 
story,  familiar  to  most  of  us ;  and  he  answered  his 
question  by  adding  "  No."  u  It  is  good  "  said  an  em 
inent  author,  "  to  make  an  end  of  a  thing  which  might 
go  on  forever."  And,  on  the  whole,  probably  this 
Essay  had  better  stop.  And,  at  this  genial  season  of 
kind  wishes  and  old  remembrances,  we  may  fitly 
enough  consider  that  these  New  Year's  days  cannot 
very  often  return  to  any.  All  this  habitude  of  being 
cannot  very  long  go  on.  Yet,  in  our  little  span  here, 
we  may  gain  possessions  which  never  will  fail.  It  is 
not  a  question  of  Time,  with  that  which  grows  for 
Eternity  !  God  grant  each  of  us,  always  more  assur 
edly,  that  Better  Part  which  can  Go  On  forever ! 


CHAPTER  XI 
CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CAKVING: 

WITH  SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  TAMPERING  WITH  THE 
COIN  OF  THE  REALM. 

BEHELD,  as  in  a  Vision,  the  following 

remarkable  circumstances : 

There   was   a    large   picture,   by  that 

great  artist  Mr.  Q.  R.  Smith,  hung  up  in 
a  certain  public  place.  It  appeared  to  me  that  the 
locality  partook  of  the  nature  of  a  market-place  in  a 
populous  city:  and  numbers  of  human  beings  beheld 
the  picture.  A  little  vulgar  boy  passed,  and  looked 
at  it :  his  words  were  these  :  "  My  eye  !  A'n't  it 
spicy  ?  Rather  !  "  A  blooming  maiden  gazed  upon 
it,  and  her  remark  was  as  follows :  "  Sweetly  pretty  !  " 
But  a  man  who  had  long  painted  wagons  for  agricul 
tural  purposes,  and  who  had  recently  painted  a  sign 
board,  after  looking  at  the  picture  for  a  little,  began 
to  improve  it  with  a  large  brush,  heavily  loaded  with 
coarse  red  and  blue,  such  as  are  used  for  painting 
wagons.  Another  man  came,  a  house-painter  :  and 


.     CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING.       279 

he  touched  the  picture,  in  several  parts,  with  a  brush 
filled  with  that  white  material  which  is  employed  for 
finishing  the  ceiling  of  rooms  which  are  not  very 
carefully  finished.  These  persons,  though  horribly 
spoiling  the  picture,  did  honestly  intend  to  improve 
it ;  and  they  fancied  they  had  much  improved  it. 
Finally  there  came  a  malicious  person,  who  was  him 
self  an  artist ;  and  who  envied  and  hated  the  first  art 
ist  for  painting  so  well.  As  for  this  man,  he  busied 
himself  upon  the  principal  figure  in  the  picture.  He 
made  its  eyes  horribly  to  squint.  He  put  a  great 
excrescence  on  its  nose.  He  painted  its  hair  a  lively 
scarlet.  And  having  hideously  disfigured  the  picture, 
he  wrote  beneath  it,  Q.  JR.  Smith,  pinxit.  And  he 
pointed  out  the  canvas  to  all  his  friends,  saying, 
"  That's  Smith's  picture  :  isn't  it  beautiful  ?  " 

Into  this  Vision  I  fell,  sitting  by  the  evening  fire. 
The  immediate  occasion  of  this  Vision  was,  that  I  had 
been  reading  a  little  volume,  prettily  printed  and 
nicely  bound,  purporting  to  be  "  The  Children's  Gar 
land  from  the  Best  Poets,  selected  and  arranged  by 
Coventry  Patmore."  There  I  had  been  pleasantly 
reviving  my  recollection  of  many  of  the  pieces,  which 
I  had  been  taught  to  read  and  repeat  as  a  boy  at 
school.  And  as  I  read,  a  sense  of  wonder  grew, 
gradually  changing  to  a  feeling  of  indignation.  I  said 
to  myself,  Surely  Mr.  Coventry  Patmore's  modesty 
has  led  him  to  take  credit  on  his  title-page  for  much 
less  than  he  deserves.  He  has  not  merely  selected 
and  arranged  these  pieces  from  the  Best  Poets :  he 


280        CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING. 

has  also  (according  to  his  own  ideas)  improved  them. 
We  have  (I  thought),  in  this  volume,  the  picture  of 
Q.  R.  Smith,  touched  up  with  red  and  whitewash, 
and  having  the  eyes  and  nose  altered  by  the  painter 
of  signboards.  Or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  in  read 
ing  this  volume,  we  are  requested  to  walk  through  a 
gallery  of  paintings  by  great  masters,  almost  all  im 
proved,  in  many  places,  by  the  same  painter  of  wagon- 
wheels,  with  the  same  large  brush  filled  with  coarse 
red.  As  we  go  on  with  the  book,  we  come  upon 
some  poem  which  we  have  known  all  our  lives,  and 
every  word  of  which  is  treasured  and  sacred  in  our 
memory.  But  we  are  made  to  feel  that  this  is  indeed 
our  old  friend :  but  his  nose  is  cut  off,  and  one  of  his 
eyes  is  put  out.  Such  was  my  first  hasty  and  unjust 
impression.  Every  poem  of  those  I  remembered 
from  childhood  had  a  host  of  verbal  variations  from 
the  version  in  which  I  knew  it.  In  Southey's  well- 
known  verses  about  "  The  Bell  on  the  Inchcape 
Rock,"  I  counted  thirty-seven.  There  were  a  good 
many  in  Campbell's  two  poems ;  one  called  "  The 
Parrot,"  and  the  other  about  Napoleon  and  the  Brit 
ish  sailor.  So  with  Cowper's  "  Royal  George  : "  so 
with  Macaulay's  "  Armada."  So  with  Scott's  "  Young 
Lochinvar : "  so  with  Byron's  "  Destruction  of  Sen 
nacherib  : "  so  with  Wordsworth's  poem  as  to  the  dog 
that  watched  many  weeks  by  his  dead  master  on 
Helvellyn  :  so  with  Goldsmith's  "  Good  people  all, 
of  every  sort : "  so  with  Mrs.  Hemans'  "  Graves 
of  a  Household."  Mr.  Patmore  tells  us  in  his 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND   CARVING.        281 

Preface,  that  "  in  a  very  few  instances  he  has  ven-  . 
tured  to  substitute  a  word  or  phrase,  where  that 
of  the  author  has  made  the  piece  in  which  it  oc 
curs  unfit  i'or  children's  reading."  But,  on  my  first  j 
reading  of  his  book,  it  appeared  that  he  had  made  I 
alterations  by  scores,  most  of  them  so  trivial  as  to  be  ( 
very  irritating.  But  I  proceeded  to  investigate.  I 
compared  Mr.  Patmore's  version  of  each  poem  with 
the  version  of  each  poem  contained  in  the  last  edition 
of  its  author's  works.  And  though  I  found  a  few 
variations,  made  apparently  through  careless  tran 
scribing  :  and  though  I  was  annoyed  by  considerable 
disregard  of  the  author's  punctuation  and  capitals; 
still  it  appeared  that  in  the  main  Mr.  Patmore  gives 
us  the  pieces  as  their  authors  left  them  :  while  the 
versions  of  them,  given  in  those  books  which  are  put 
into  the  hands  of  children,  have,  in  almost  every  case, 
been  touched  up  by  nobody  knows  whom.  So  that 
when  Mr.  Patmore's  book  falls  into  the  hands  of  men 
who  made  their  first  acquaintance  with  many  of  the 
pieces  it  contains  in  their  schoolboy  days,  and  who 
naturally  prefer  the  version  of  them  which  is  sur 
rounded  by  the  associations  of  that  season  :  Mr.  Pat- 
more  will  be  unjustly  accused  of  having  cut  and 
carved  upon  the  dear  old  words.  Whereas,  in  truth, 
the  present  generation  has  reason  to  complain  of  hav 
ing  been  introduced  to  the  wrong  things  in  youth  :  so 
that  now  we  cannot  rightly  appreciate  the  right 
things.  And  for  myself,  my  first  unjust  suspicion  of 


282        CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING. 

Mr.  Patmore,  speedily  dispelled  by  investigation,  led 
me  to  many  thoughts  upon  the  whole  subject  of  liter 
ary  honesty  and  dishonesty  in  this  matter. 

It  seems  to  me  quite  essential  that  a  plain  princi 
ple  of  common  faithfulness  should  be  driven  into 
those  persons  who  edit  and  publish  the  writings  of 
other  men.  If  you  pretend  to  show  us  Raphael's  pic 
ture,  let  it  be  exactly  as  Raphael  left  it.  But  if  your 
purpose  be  to  exhibit  the  picture  as  touched  up  by 
yourself,  do  not  mendaciously  call  the  picture  a 
Raphael.  Call  it  what  it  is :  to  wit,  Raphael  altered 
"and  improved  by  Snooks.  If  you  take  a  sovereign, 
and  drill  several  holes  in  it,  and  fill  them  up  with 
lead,  you  will  be  made  to  feel,  should  you  endeavor  to 
convey  that  coin  into  circulation,  that  though  you  may 
sell  it  for  what  it  is  worth  as  a  sovereign  plugged  with 
lead,  you  had  better  not  try  to  pass  it  off  upon  people 
as  a  genuine  sovereign.  All  this  is  as  plain  as  may 
be.  But  there  are  many  collectors  and  editors  of  lit 
tle  poems,  who  take  a  golden  piece  by  Goldsmith, 
Wordsworth,  Campbell,  or  Moore  :  and  punch  out  a 
word  here  and  there,  and  stick  in  their  own  miserable 
little  plug  of  pinchbeck.  And  then,  having  thus  de 
based  the  coin,  they  have  the  impudence  to  palm  it 
off  upon  the  world  with  the  superscription  of  Gold 
smith,  Wordsworth,  Campbell,  or  Moore.  It  is  need 
ful,  I  think,  that  some  plain  principles  of  literary 
honesty  should  be  instilled  into  cutting  and  carving 
editors.  Even  Mr.  Palgrave,  in  his  "  Golden  Treas- 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING.       283 

ury,"  is  not  free  from  some  measure  of  blame  ;  though 
his  sins  are  as  nothing  compared  with  those  of  the 
editors  of  school  collections  and  volumes  of  sacred 
poetry.  Mr.  Palgrave  has  not  punched  out  gold  to 
stick  in  pinchbeck  :  but  in  one  or  two  glaring  in 
stances,  he  has  punched  out  gold  and  left  the  vacant 
space.  Every  one  knows  that  exquisite  little  poem 
of  Hood's,  "  The  Death  Bed."  That  poem  consists 
of  four  stanzas.  Mr.  Palgrave  gives  us  in  his  book  a 
poem  which  he  calls  "  The  Death  Bed  ; "  and  puts  at 
the  end  of  it  the  honored  name  of  Hood.  But  it  is 
not  Hood's  "  Death  Bed  :  "  any  more  than  a  sover 
eign  with  one  half  of  it  cut  off  would  be  a  true  sov 
ereign.  Mr.  Palgrave  gives  us  just  two  stanzas : 
Hood's  first  and  last ;  leaving  out  the  two  intermediate 
ones.  In  a  note,  whose  tone  is  much  too  confident 
for  my  taste,  Mr.  Palgrave  attempts  to  justify  this 
tampering  with  the  coin  of  the  realm.  He  says  that 
the  omitted  stanzas  are  very  ingenious,  but  that  inge 
nuity  is  not  in  accordance  with  pathos.  But  what  we 
want  is  Hood  with  his  own  peculiar  characteristics  : 
not  Hood  with  the  corners  rubbed  off  to  please  even 
so  competent  a  critic  as  Mr.  Palgrave.  In  my  judg 
ment,  the  two  omitted  stanzas  are  eminently  charac 
teristic  of  Hood.  I  do  not  think  they  are  very  ingen 
ious  :  they  express  simple  and  natural  feelings  :  and 
they  are  expressed  with  a  most  touching  and  pathetic 
beauty.  And  on  the  whole,  if  you  are  to  give  the 
poem  to  the  world  as  Hood's,  they  seem  to  have  an 


284       CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND   CARVING. 

especial  right  to  stand  in  it.  If  you  give  a  picture 
of  a  bison,  surely  you  should  give  the  hump  :  even 
though  you  may  think  the  animal  would  be  more 
graceful  without  it.  We  want  to  have  the  creature 
as  God  made  it :  with  the  peculiarities  God  gave  it. 

The  poems  which  are  cut  and  carved  to  the  ex- 
tremest  degree  are  hymns.  There  is  indeed  some 
pretext  of  reason  here :  for  it  is  necessary  that  hymns 
should  be  made,  in  respect  of  the  doctrines  they 
set  forth,  to  fit  the  views  of  the  people  who  are  to 
sing  them.  Not  that  I  think  that  this  justifies  the 
practice  of  adulterating  the  text.  But  in  the  few 
cases  where  a  hymn  has  been  altered  so  completely 
as  to  become  virtually  a  new  composition  ;  and  a  much 
better  composition  than  it  was  originally  :  and  where 
the  authorship  is  a  matter  really  never  thought  of  by 
the  people  who  devoutly  use  the  hymn  ;  something  is 
to  be  said  for  this  tampering.  For  the  hymn  is  not 
set  forth  as  a  poem  written  by  this  man  or  that : 
but  merely  as  a  piece  wrliich  many  hands  may  have 
brought  into  its  present  shape ;  and  which  in  its  pres 
ent  shape  suits  a  specific  purpose.  You  don't  daub 
Raphael's  picture  with  wagon  paint;  and  still  exhibit 
it  as  a  Raphael.  You  touch  it  up  according  to  your 
peculiar  views:  and  then  exhibit  it  saying  merely,  Is 
not  that  a  nice  picture?  It  is  nobody's  in  particular. 
It  is  the  joint  doing  of  many  men,  and  perhaps  of 
many  years.  But  where  hymns  are  presented  in  a 
literary  shape,  and  as  the  productions  of  the  men  who 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING.       285 

wrote  them,  the  same  law  of  honesty  applies  as  in  the 
case  of  all  other  literary  work.  I  observe,  with  very 
great  satisfaction,  that  in  the  admirable  "  Book  of 
Praise  "  lately  published  by  Sir  Roundell  Palmer,  that 
eminent  lawyer  has  made  it  his  rule  "  to  adhere 
strictly,  in  all  cases  in  which  it  could  be  ascertained 
to  the  genuine  uncorrupted  text  of  the  authors  them 
selves."  And  Sir  Roundell  Palmer  speaks  with  just 
severity  of  the  censurable,  but  almost  universal,  prac 
tice  of  tampering  with  the  text. 

I  confess  that  till  I  examined  Mr.  Patmore's  vol 
ume,  I  had  no  idea  to  what  an  extent  this  literary 
clipping  of  the  coin  had  gone,  even  in  the  matter  of 
poetry  for  clipping  and  altering  which  there  is  no 
pretext  of  reason.  It  appears  to  me  a  duty,  in  the 
interest  of  truth,  to  protest  against  this  discreditable 
cutting  and  carving.  There  are  various  editors  of 
school-books,  and  other  collections  of  poetry  for  the 
young,  who  seem  incapable  of  giving  the  shortest 
poem  by  the  greatest  poet,  without  improving  it  here 
and  there  with  their  red  brush.  No  statue  is  present 
ed  to  us  without  first  having  its  nose  knocked  off. 
And  of  course  there  is  no  necessity  here  for  squaring 
the  poems  to  some  doctrinal  standard.  It  is  a  pure 
matter  of  the  editor's  thinking  that  he  can  improve 
the  compositions  of  Campbell,  Wordsworth,  Moore, 
Goldsmith,  Southey,  Scott,  Byron,  Macaulay,  or  Poe. 
So  that  in  the  case  of  every  one  of  these  manifold  al 
terations  the  question  is  just  this  simple  one :  Whether 


286       CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING. 

Wordsworth  or  some  pushing  Teacher  of  Elocution  is 
the  best  judge  of  what  Wordsworth  should  say : 
whether  we  are  to  hold  by  these  great  poets,  believing 
that  they  most  carefully  considered  their  most  careful 
pieces  ;  or  to  hold  by  anybody  who  chooses  to  alter 
them.  There  is  something  intensely  irritating  in  the 
idea  of  Mr.  Smith,  with  his  pencil  in  his  hand,  sitting 
down  with  a  volume  of  Wordsworth,  every  word  in 
every  line  of  which  was  carefully  considered  by  the 
great  poet,  and  stands  there  because  the  great  poet 
thought  it  the  right  word  ;  and  jauntily  altering  a  word 
here  and  there.  The  vision  still  returns  to  me  of  the 
sign-painter  touching  up  Raphael.  But  I  have  no  doubt 
whatsoever  that  Mr.  Smith  or  Mr.  Brown  thinks  him 
self  quite  equal  to  improving  Wordsworth.  The  self- 
sufficiency  of  human  beings  is  wonderful.  I  have 
heard  of  a  man  who  thought  he  could  improve  things 
better  than  anything  of  Wordsworth's.  Probably  you 
never  heard  of  the  youthful  Scotch  divine  who  lived 
in  days  when  stupid  bigotry  forbade  the  use  of  the 
Lord's  Prayer  in  the  pulpits  of  the  Scotch  church. 
That  young  divine  went  to  preach  for  an  aged  clergy 
man  who  was  somewhat  wiser  than  his  generation : 
and  who  accordingly  told  the  young  divine  in  the 
vestry  before  service  that  the  Lord's  Prayer  was 
habitually  used  in  that  church.  "Is  it  necessary," 
said  the  young  divine,  "  that  I  should  use  the  Lord's 
Prayer  ?  "  "  Not  at  all,"  replied  the  aged  clergyman, 
"if  you  can  use  anything  better."  But  the  young 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING.       287 

divine  was  true  to  his  party :  and  he  used  certain 
petitions  of  his  own,  which  he  esteemed  as  improve 
ments  on  the  Lord's  Prayer. 

You  may  "Be  quite  sure  that  in  the  compositions  of 
any  careful  writer,  you  could  not  alter  many  words 
without  injury  to  the  writer's  style.  You  could  make 
few  alterations  which  the  writer  would  approve.  In 
a  careful  style,  rely  on  it,  there  was  some  appreciable 
reason  present  to  the  author's  mind  for  the  employ 
ment  of  almost  every  word ;  and  for  each  word's  com 
ing  in  just  where  it  does.  This  is  true  even  of  prose. 
And  I  should  fancy  that  few  men  would  long  continue 
to  write  for  any  periodical  the  editor  of  which  was 
wont  to  cut  and  carve  upon  their  articles.  You  re 
member  how  bitterly  Sou  they  used  to  complain  of  the 
way  in  which  Lockhart  altered  his.  But  all  this  holds 
good  with  infinitely  greater  force  in  the  case  of  poe 
try  :  especially  in  the  case  of  such  short  gems  as 
many  of  those  in  Mr.  Patmore's  volume.  The  prose 
writer,  however  accurate,  covers  his  pages  a  day  :  each 
sentence  is  carefully  weighed  ;  but  weighed  rapidly. 
But  the  poet  has  lingered  long  over  every  word  in  his 
happiest  verse.  How  carefully  each  phrase  has  been 
considered :  how  each  phrase  is  fitted  to  all  the  rest ! 
I  declare  it  seems  to  me,  there  is  something  sacred  in 
the  best  stanzas  of  a  great  poet.  It  is  profanation  to 
alter  a  word.  And  you  know  how  to  the  sensitively 
strung  mind  and  ear  of  the  author  a  single  wrong  note 
makes  discord  of  the  whole  :  the  alteration  of  a  word 


288       CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING. 

here  and  there  may  turn  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous. 
And  such  alterations  may  be  made  in  all  good  faith, 
by  people  whose  discernment  is  not  sharpened  to  this 
particular  use.  There  was  a  pretty  song,  popular 
some  years  ago,  which  was  called  "  What  are  the  wild 
waves  saying  ?  "  The  writer  had  many  times  heard 
that  song  :  but  he  hardly  recognized  its  name  when  he 
heard  it  once  asked  for  by  the  title  of  "  What  are  the 
inad  waves  roaring  ?  "  Let  us  have  the  poet's  work 
as  he  left  it.  You  do  not  know  how  painfully  the 
least  verbal  alteration  may  jar  upon  a  sensitive  ear. 
I  hold  that  so  sacred  is  the  genuine  text  of  a  great 
poet,  that  even  to  the  punctuation ;  and  the  capital 
letters,  however  eccentric  their  use  may  be  ;  it  should 
be  esteemed  as  sacrilege  to  touch  it.  Let  me  say 
here  that  no  man  who  does  not  know  the  effect  upon 
poetry  of  little  typographical  features  is  fit  to  edit  any 
poet.  It  seems  to  me  that  Mr.  Coventry  Patmore 
fails  there.  It  is  plain  that  he  does  not  perceive, 
with  the  sensitiveness  proper  to  the  editor  of  another 
man's  poetry,  what  an  effect  upon  the  expression  of  a 
stanza  or  a  line  is  produced  by  typographical  details. 
Mr.  Patmore  not  unfrequently  alters  the  punctuation 
which  the  authors  (we  may  suppose)  adopted  after 
consideration  ;  and  which  has  grown,  to  every  true 
reader  of  poetry,  as  much  a  part  of  the  stanza  as  its 
words  are.  Every  one  knows  how  much  importance 
Wordsworth  attached  to  the  use  of  capital  letters. 
Now,  in  the  poem  entitled  "  Fidelity  "  ("  Children's 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING.       289 

Garland,")  Mr.  Patmore  has  at  nine  different  places 
substituted  a  small  letter  for  Wordsworth's  capital : 
considerably  to  the  destruction  of  the  expression 
of  the  piece :  and  at  any  rate  to  the  clipping  of  the 
coin  Wordsworth  left  us.  In  the  last  verse  of  Foe's 
grand  poem,  "  The  Raven,"  Mr.  Patmore  has,  in  six 
lines,  made  five  alterations :  one  quite  uncalled  for  ; 
four  for  the  worse.  Poe  wrote  demon :  Mr.  Patmore 
chooses  to  make  it  daemon.  Poe  wrote  "  the  shadow 
that  lies  floating  on  the  floor : "  Mr.  Patmore  substi 
tutes  is  for  lies  :  to  the  detriment  of  the  sense.  And 
Poe  ends  the  stanza  thus  : 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted  —  nevermore ! 

It  is  extraordinary  how  many  variations  for  the 
worse  Mr.  Patmore  introduces  into  the  last  line. 
He  makes  it 

Shall  be  lifted  "Nevermore." 

1st.  The  dash  before  the  nevermore  is  omitted:  a 
loss. 

2d.  The  Nevermore  is  made  to  begin  with  a  capi 
tal  :  which,  though  very  right  in  preceding  stanzas, 
is  here  absurd. 

3d.  The  Nevermore  is  marked  as  a  quotation :  which 
it  is  not.  It  is  one  in  the  preceding  stanzas,  and  is 
properly  marked  as  one  :  but  here  the  mark  of  quo 
tation  is  wrong. 

4th.  Poe  puts,  most  fitly,  a  mark  of  exclamation 
19 


290        CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND   CARVING. 

after  the  nevermore!  If  ever  there  was  a  stanza 
which  should  end  with  that  point,  it  is  here.  But 
Mr.  Patmore,  for  no  earthly  reason,  leaves  it  out. 

Now,  some  folk  may  say  these  are  small  matters. 
I  beg  to  say  that  they  are  not  small  matters  to  any 
accurate  reader :  and  above  all,  to  any  reader  with 
an  eye  for  the  expression  of  poetry.  And  no  man, 
who  has  not  an  eye  for  these  minute  points,  and  who 
does  not  feel  their  force,  is  fit  for  an  editor  of  poetry. 
I  am  quite  sure  that  no  mortal,  with  an  eye  for  such 
niceties,  will  deny,  that  each  of  Mr.  Patmore's  four 
alterations  of  one  line  of  Poe  is  an  alteration  for  the 
worse.  I  have  taken  as  the  proper  representation  of 
Poe  the  best  American  edition  of  his  Avhole  works, 
in  four  volumes.  But  if  you  look  at  the  beautiful 
little  edition  of  his  poems,  edited  by  Mr.  Hannay, 
you  will  find  that  the  accurate  scholar  has  given  that 
stanza  exactly  as  the  American  edition  gives  it  :  and, 
of  course,  exactly  right.  If  Mr.  Patmore  does  not 
understand  how  indescribably  irritating  these  little 
cuttings  and  carvings  are  to  a  careful  reader  or 
writer,  he  is  not  the  man  to  edit  the  "  Children's 
Garland,"  or  any  other  collection  of  poetry.  Every 
one  can  imagine  the  indignation  with  which  Words 
worth  the  scrupulous  and  Poe  the  minutely  accurate 
would  have  learned  that  their  best  poems  were,  either 
through  carelessness,  or  with  the  design  of  making 
them  better,  altered  by  Mr.  Patmore,  even  in  the 
matter  of  capital  letters  and  points :  and  that  finally 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING.       291 

the  result  was  to  be  exhibited  to  the  world,  not  as 
Raphael  touched  up  by  Smith  the  sign-painter,  but  as 
Raphael  pure  and  genuine. 

And  while  thus  fault  finding  at  any  rate,  I  am 
obliged  to  say  that  though  acquitting  Mr.  Patmore 
of  any  vainglorious  purpose  of  improving  those  "  Best 
Poets  "  from  whom  he  has  selected  his  "  Garknd,"  I 
cannot  acquit  him  of  culpable  carelessness  in  a  good 
many  instances.  Though  he  may  not  have  smeared 
the  great  master's  picture  with  red  paint,  he  has  not 
been  sufficiently  careful  to  present  the  picture  to  us 
unsmeared  by  anybody  else.  Except  in  those  "  very 
few  instances "  in  which  he  has  changed  a  word  or 
phrase  "•  unfit  for  children's  reading,"  we  have  a  right 
to  expect  an  accurate  version  of  the  text.  But  it  is 
quite  easy  to  point  out  instances  in  which  Mr.  Pat- 
more's  reading  could  not  have  been  derived  from  any 
edition  of  the  poet,  however  bad  ;  nor  can  any  one 
say  that  Mr.  Patmore's  reading  is  an  improvement 
upon  the  textus  receptus.  The  third  and  fourth  lines 
of  Macaulay's  poern,  "  The  Armada,"  run  as  follows  : 

When  that  great  fleet  invincible  against  her  bore  in  vain 
The  richest  spoils  of  Mexico,  the  stoutest  hearts  of  Spain. 

Mr.  Patmore  makes  two  alterations  in  these  lines. 
For  that  great  fleet,  he  reads  the"  great  fleet,  to  the 
detriment  alike  of  rhythm  and  meaning.  And  for 
the  richest  spoils  of  Mexico,  he  reads  the  richest  stores. 
It  is  extremely  plain  that  spoils  is  a  much  better  word 


292        CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND   CARVING. 

than  stores.  It  was  not  the  stores  of  Mexico  ;  that  is, 
the  wealth  stored  up  in  Mexico ;  that  the  Armada 
bore.  It  was  the  spoils  of  Mexico ;  that  is,  the 
wealth  which  the  Spaniards  had  taken  away  from 
Mexico ;  that  the  Armada  bore.  It  is  possible  that 
the  Spaniards  may  have  taken  away  all  the  wealth 
of  Mexico  :  in  which  case  the  spoils  and  the  stores 
would  coincide  in  fact.  But  they  would  still  be  to 
tally  different  in  conception  ;  and  so  exact  a  writer  as 
Macaulay  would  never  confound  the  two  things. 

Next,  let  us  turn  to  Campbell's  touching  verses  en 
titled  "  The  Parrot."  Campbell  put  at  the  top  of  his 
verses  the  words,  "  The  Parrot  :  a  domestic  Anec 
dote."  Mr.  Patmore  puts  the  words,  "  The  Parrot : 
a  true  Story."  The  poem  tells  us,  very  simply  and 
beautifully,  how  a  certain  parrot,  which  in  its  early 
days  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  the  Spanish  lan 
guage  spoken,  was  brought  to  the  island  of  Mull : 
where,  we  may  well  suppose,  it  heard  no  Spanish. 
It  lived  in  Mull  for  many  years,  lill  its  green  and 
gold  changed  to  gray :  till  it  grew  blind  and  appar 
ently  dumb.  But  let  the  story  be  told  in  the  poet's 
words  : 

At  last,  when  blind  and  seeming  dumb, 
He  scolded,  laugh'd,  and  spoke  no  more, 

A  Spanish  stranger  chanced  to  come 
To  Mulla's  shore; 

He  hail'd  the  bird  in  Spanish  speech, 
The  bird  in  Spanish  speech  replied, 

Flapp'd  round  his  cage  with  joyous  screech, 
Dropt  down,  and  died. 


CONCERNING    CUTTING   AND   CARVING.        293 

Tn  glancing  over  Mr.  Patmore's  reading  of  this 
little  piece,  I  am  annoyed  by  observing  several  al 
terations  in  Campbell's  punctuation  :  every  altera 
tion  manifestly  for  the  worse.  But  there  is  a  more 
serious  tampering  with  the  text.  The  moral  of  the 
poem,  of  course,  is  that  parrots  have  hearts  and 
memories  as  well  as  we.  And  the  poem  sets  out 
by  stating  that  great  principle.  The  first  verse  is  : 

The  deep  affections  of  the  breast, 
That  Heaven  to  living  things  imparts, 

Are  not  exclusively  possess'd 
By  human  hearts. 

Mr.  Patmore  has  the  bad  taste,  not  to  say  more,  to 
leave  that  verse  out.  I  cannot  see  any  good  reason 
why.  The  principle  it  states  is  one  which  a  word  or 
two  would  render  quite  intelligible  to  any  child.  In 
deed,  to  any  child  who  could  not  take  in  that  principle, 
the  entire  story  would  be  quite  unintelligible.  And 
I  cannot  recognize  Mr.  Patmore's  treatment  of  this 
poem  as  other  than  an  unjustifiable  tampering  with 
the  coin  of  the  realm. 

There  is  another  poem  of  Campbell's  which  fares 
as  badly.  Campbell  calls  it  "  Napoleon  and  the  Brit 
ish  Sailor."  Mr.  Patmore,  in  his  zeal  for  cutting  and 
carving,  calls  it  "  Napoleon  and  the  Sailor :  a  true 
Story."  This  poem,  like  the  last,  sets  out  with  a 
principle  or  sentiment ;  and  then  goes  on  with  the 
facts.  Mr.  Patmore  takes  it  upon  himself  to  leave 
out  that  first  verse  :  and  then  to  daub  the  second 


294       CONCERNING   CUTTING  AND   CARVING. 

verse  in  order  to  make  it  intelligible  in  the  absence  of 
the  first.  I  hold  this  to  be  utterly  unpardonable.  It 
is  emphatically  Raphael  improved  by  the  sign-painter. 
And  the  pretext  of  anything  "  unfit  for  children's 
reading "  will  not  hold  here.  Any  child  that  could 
understand  the  story,  would  understand  this  first  verse  : 

I  love  contemplating  —  apart 

From  all  his  homicidal  glory, 
The  traits  that  soften  to  our  heart 

Napoleon's  story! 

Then  Campbell's  second  verse  runs  thus : 

'Twas  while  his  banners  at  Boulogne 
Armed  in  our  island  every  freeman, 

His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

Thus  simply  and  naturally  does  the  story  which  fol 
lows,  rise  out  of  the  sentiment  which  the  poet  has  ex 
pressed.  But  as  Mr.  Patmore  has  cut  out  the  senti 
ment,  he  finds  it  necessary  to  tamper  with  the  second 
verse  :  and  accordingly  he  starts  in  this  abrupt,  awk 
ward,  and  ugly  fashion  ;  which  no  true  reader  of 
Campbell  will  behold  without  much  indignation  :  and 
which  would  have  roused  the  sensitive  poet  himself  to 
still  greater  wrath  :  — 

Napoleon's  banners  at  Boulogne 

Armed  in  our  island  every  freeman, 
His  navy  chanced, 

And  so  on.  Here,  you  see,  in  the  verse  as  im 
proved  by  Mr.  Patmore,  we  have  two  distinct  propo- 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING.       295 

sitions ;  separated  by  a  comma.  Mr.  Patmore  not 
merely  has  no  eye  for  punctuation  ;  but  is  plainly 
ignorant  of  its  first  principles.  If  any  schoolboy, 
after  having  had  the  use  of  the  colon  and  semicolon 
explained  to  him,  were  to  use  a  comma  in  such  fash 
ion  in  an  English  theme,  he  would  richly  deserve  a 
black  mark  for  stupidity ;  and  he  would  doubtless  re 
ceive  one.  But  apart  from  this  lesser  matter,  which 
will  not  seem  small  to  any  one  with  a  sense  of  gram 
matical  accuracy,  I  ask  whether  it  be  not  too  bad  that 
Campbell's  natural  and  beautiful  verse  should  be  adul 
terated  into  this  irritating  caricature  of  it. 

Let  us  next  test  Mr.  Patmore's  accuracy  in  ex 
hibiting  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Everybody  knows  "  Lady 
Heron's  Song"  which  Sir  Walter  himself  called  "  Loch- 
invar  : "  but  which  Mr.  Patmore,  eager  for  change, 
calls  "  Young  Lochinvar."  Sir  Walter's  first  two 
lines  are  these  : 

O,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best. 

Mr.  Patmore  cannot  render  these  simple  lines  ac 
curately.  He  begins  West  with  a  capital  letter : 
which,  right  or  wrong,  Sir  Walter  did  not.  Then 
he  puts  a  point  of  exclamation  after  West,  where  Sir 
Walter  has  a  comma.  Sir  Walter  tells  us  that  Loch- 
invar's  steed  was  the  best :  Mr.  Patmore  improves  the 
statement  into  his  steed  is  the  best.  The  very  pettiness 
of  these  changes  makes  them  the  more  irritating. 
Granting  that  Mr.  Patmore's  reading  is  neither  bet- 


296        CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND   CARVING. 

ter  nor  worse  than  the  original,  why  not  leave  us  the 
poem  as  the  great  man  gave  it  us  ?  Through  all  that 
well-known  song,  one  is  worried  by  Mr.  Patmore's 
wretched  little  smears  of  red  paint.  The  punctuation 
throughout  is  no  longer  matter  for  an  imposition  :  it 
is  matter  for  a  flogging.  Sir  Walter  says, 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall : 

Mr.  Patmore  with  his  brush  makes  it  so  bravely. 
And,  eager  for  change  at  any  price,  Mr.  Patmore 
gives  us  a  new  spelling  of  the  name  of  the  river  Esk. 
Sir  Walter,  like  everybody  else,  spells  that  word  Esk. 
Mr.  Patmore  is  not  content  with  this,  but  develops 
the  word  into  Eske.  Sir  Walter  describes  a  certain 
locality  as  Cannobie  Lee :  Mr.  Patmore  improves  the 
name  into  Cannobie  LEA.  And  finally,  the  song  end 
ing  with  a  question,  Sir  Walter  ends  it  with  a  point  of 
interrogation.  But  Mr.  Patmore,  impatient  of  the 
restraints  of  grammar,  concludes  with  a  point  of  ex 
clamation. 

All  this  is  really  too  bad.  Byron  fares  no  better  : 
and  Mr.  Patmore's  alterations  are  of  the  same  irritat 
ing  and  contemptible  kind.  Byron  wrote 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  roll'd  not  the  breath  of  his  pride; 

Mr.  Patmore  cannot  leave  this  alone.  In  the  first 
line  he  reads  nostrils  for  nostril:  in  the  second,  them 
for  it.  Now,  not  only  are  Byron's  words  the  best, 
just  because  Byron  chose  them :  but  Byron's  descrip- 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND   CARVING.       297 

tion  is  strikingly  true  to  fact.  Every  one  who  has 
ever  seen  a  horse  fallen,  or  a  horse  dead,  knows  how 
remarkably  flat  the  creature  lies  upon  the  ground.  It 
is  startling  to  find  the  sixteen  hands  of  height  when 
the  animal  was  upon  his  legs,  turned  to  something  that 
hardly  surpasses  your  knee  when  the  creature  is  lying 
upon  his  side.  And  the  head  of  a  dead  horse,  lying 
upon  the  ground,  would  show  one  nostril  and  not  two. 
You  would  see  only  the  upper  one  :  and  remark  that 
the  warm  breath  of  the  creature  was  no  longer  rolling 
through  that.  These  little  matters  make  just  the  dif 
ference  between  being  accurate  and  being  inaccurate  : 
between  being  right  and  being  wrong. 

I  do  not  know  whether  it  be  from  a  desire  to  im 
prove  Mr.  Keble's  name,  that  Mr.  Patmore,  in  his 
"  Index  of  "Writers,"  alters  it  to  KeeUe.  I  object 
likewise  to  Mr.  Patmore's  improving  Barnfield's 
couplet 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 

Leaned  her  breast  up  till  a  thorn: 

by  substituting  against  for  up  till.  The  very  stupid 
est  child  would  know,  after  one  telling,  the  meaning 
of  up  till :  and  Mr.  Patmore's  alteration  is  a  destruc 
tion  of  the  antique  flavor  of  the  piece. 

The  thoughtful  reader,  who  has  had  some  experi 
ence  of  life,  must  have  arrived  at  this  conviction  : 
that  if  two  or  three  slices  of  a  leg  of  mutton  are  ex 
tremely  bad,  all  the  rest  of  the  leg  is  probably  bad 
too.  I  have  not  examined  the  whole  of  Mr.  Pat- 


298        CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING. 

more's  volume  :  but  I  am  obliged  to  conclude,  from 
the  absence  of  minute  accuracy  in  the  pieces  which  I 
have  examined,  that  the  entire  volume  is  deficient  in 
minute  accuracy.  Now,  in  a  book  like  this,  accuracy 
is  the  first  thing.  If  any  scholar  were  to  take  up  a 
play  of  JEschylus  or  Aristophanes,  and  find  it  as  care 
lessly  edited  as  several  of  the  poems  which  we  have 
considered,  I  think  the  scholar  would  be  disposed  to 
throw  that  play  into  the  fire.  And  I  cannot  for  my 
life  see  why  perfect  accuracy  should  be  less  sought 
after  by  an  editor  of  English  poems  than  by  an  editor 
of  Greek  plays. 

But  on  the  general  question  of  cutting  and  carving 
I  would  almost  go  so  far  as  to  say,  that  after  a  poem 
has  been  current  for  years,  and  has  found  a  place  in 
many  memories,  not  even  its  author  has  a  right  to 
alter  it.  Nothing,  at  least,  but  an  improvement  the 
most  extraordinary,  can  justify  such  a  breaking  in 
upon  a  host  of  old  associations.  It  is  a  mortifying 
thing,  when  a  man  looks,  in  later  life,  into  the  volume 
of  his  favorite  author,  to  find  that  the  things  he  best 
remembers  are  no  longer  there.  Even  manifest  im 
provement  cannot  reconcile  us  to  the  change.  When 
the  present  writer  was  a  youth  at  College,  he  cherished 
an  enthusiastic  admiration  for  John  Foster's  "  Essays." 
Let  it  be  said,  his  admiration  is  hardly  less  now.  I 
read  and  re-read  them  in  a  large  octavo  volume  :  one 
of  the  earlier  editions,  which  had  not  received  the  au 
thor's  latest  corrections.  Yet  I  valued  every  phrase : 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING.       299 

and  I  well  remember  how  aggrieved  I  felt  when  I  got 
an  edition  with  Foster's  final  emendations ;  and  found 
that  Foster  had  cut  out,  and  toned  down,  and  varied, 
just  the  things  of  which  my  memory  kept  the  firmest 
hold.  One  feels  as  though  one  had  a  vested  interest 
in  what  had  been  so  prized  and  lingered  over.  You 
know  how  Wordsworth  and  Moore  kept  touching  up 
their  verses  :  generally  for  the  worse.  I  do  not  think 
the  last  edition  which  Wordsworth  himself  corrected, 
is  the  best  edition  of  his  poetry.  In  that  poem  of  his 
which  has  already  been  named,  concerning  the  faith 
ful  dog  on  Helvellyn,  he  made,  late  in  life,  various  lit 
tle  changes  :  which  not  being  decidedly  for  the  better, 
must  be  held  as  for  the  worse.  For  any  change  from 
the  dear  old  way  is  for  the  worse,  unless  it  be  very 
markedly  for  the  better.  And  surely,  after  describing 
the  finding  of  the  poor  tourist's  body,  the  old  way, 
which  was  this  : 

Sad  sight !  the  shepherd,  with  a  sigh, 
Looks  round,  to  learn  the  history: 

is  quite  as  good  as  the  new  way,  which  is  this : 

The  appalled  Discoverer  with  a  sigh, 
Looks  round,  to  learn  the  history. 

No  rule,  indeed,  can  be  laid  down  here.  No  great 
poet  cuts  and  carves  upon  his  own  productions  so 
much  as  Mr.  Tennyson.  You  remember  how 

Revered  Victoria,  you  that  hold  — 


300      CONCERNING  CUTTING    AND  CARVING, 
has  changed  into 

Revered,  beloved,  oh  you  that  hold. 

You  remember  how  in  the  story  of  the  schoolboys 
who  stole  a  litter  of  pigs,  the  passage, 

We  paid  in  person,  scored  upon  that  part 
Which  cherubs  want. 

has  now  dropped  all  reference  to  the  scoring.  And 
"  Locksley  Hall "  bristles  with  verbal  alterations, 
which  every  careful  reader  of  Tennyson  knows.  One 
bows,  of  course,  to  the  presence  of  Mr.  Tennyson  ; 
and  does  not  venture  to  set  up  one's  own  taste  as 
against  his.  Yet,  let  me  confess  it,  I  miss  and  I  re 
gret  some  of  the  old  things.  Doubtless  there  are  pas 
sages  which  at  the  first  were  open  to  hostile  criticism, 
and  which  met  it :  which  now  have  been  raised  above 
all  cavil.  There  is  that  passage  in  the  "  Dream  of 
Fair  Women,"  which  describes  the  death  of  Iphi- 
genia.  She  tells  of  it  herself.  Here  is  the  verse 
as  it  stands  even  in  the  seventh  edition  : 

The  tall  masts  quivered  as  they  lay  afloat, 
The  temples  and  the  people  and  the  shore; 

One  drew  a  sharp  knife  thro1  my  tender  throat 
Slowly,  —  and  nothing  more. 

Every  one  feels  how  unpleasant  is  the  picture  con 
veyed  by  the  last  two  lines.  It  passes  the  limits  of 
tragedy,  and  approaches  the  physically  revolting.  It 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND   CARVING.       301 

-s,  likewise,  suggestive  rather  of  the  killing  of  a  sheep 
ur  pig,  than  of  the  solemn  sacrifice  of  a  human  being. 
I  confess,  I  incomparably  prefer  the  simplicity  of  the 
inspired  statement :  "  And  Abraham  stretched  forth 
his  hand,  and  took  the  knife  to  slay  his  son."  We 
don't  want  any  details  as  to  how  the  knife  was  to  be 
used ;  or  as  to  the  precise  point  at  which  it  was  to  let 
out  life.  It  would  jar,  were  we  to  read,  "  Abraham 
stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  was  just  going  to  cut 
Isaac's  throat."  Now  Mr.  Tennyson  is  worse  than 
that :  for  he  gives  us,  doubtless  with  painful  accuracy, 
the  account  of  the  actual  cutting  of  the  throat.  Then, 
besides  this,  Mr.  Tennyson's  verse,  as  it  used  to  stand, 
•was  susceptible  of  a  wrong  interpretation.  I  do  not 
mean  that  any  candid  reader  would  be  likely  to  mis 
take  the  poet's  sense  :  but  I  mean  that  an  ill-set  critic 
would  have  occasion  for  misrepresenting  it.  You  may 
remember  that  a  severe  critic  did  misrepresent  it. 
In  an  ancient  Review,  you  may  see  the  verse  printed 
as  I  have  given  it  above :  and  then  the  critic  goes  on 
to  say  something  like  this:  "What  an  unreasonable 
person  Iphigenia  must  have  been  !  '  He  cut  my 
throat :  nothing  more  : '  what  more  could  the  woman 
possibly  want  ?  "  Of  course,  we  know  what  the  poet 
meant :  but,  in  strictness,  what  he  meant  he  did  not 
say.  But  look  to  the  latest  edition  of  Mr.  Tennyson's 
poems ;  and  you  will  be  content.  Here  is  the  verse 
now.  You  will  see  that  it  has  been  most  severely  cut 
and  carved ;  but  to  a  most  admirable  result : 


802        CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING. 

The  high  masts  trembled  as  they  lay  afloat; 

The  towers,  the  temples  wavered,  and  the  shore; 
The  bright  death  quivered  at  the  victim's  throat, 

Touched,  and  I  knew  no  more. 

I  should  fancy,  my  friend,  that  you  have  nothing  to 
say  against  such  tampering  with  the  coin.  This  is  as 
though  a  piece  of  baser  metal  were  touched  with  the 
philosopher's  stone,  and  turned  to  gold.  And  there 
have  been  cases  in  which  a  very  felicitous  change  has 
been  made  by  one  man  upon  the  writing  of  another. 
A  single  touch  has  sometimes  done  it.  I  wonder 
whether  Mr.  Palgrave  was  aware  that,  in  giving  in 
his  book  those  well-known  verses  "  To  Althea  from 
Prison,"  which  he  rather  absurdly  describes  as  by 
Colonel  Lovelace  (why  does  he  not  tell  us  that  his 
extracts  from  a  greater  poet  are  by  William  Shak- 
speare,  JEsquire?),  there  is  one  verse  which  he  has 
not  given  as  Lovelace  wrote  it, 

When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fetter'd  to  her  eye, 
The  birds,  that  wanton  in  the  air, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Lovelace  wrote  "  the  gods  that  wanton  in  the  air  :  " 
and  birds  was  substituted  by  Bishop  Percy.  It  is  a 
simple  and  obvious  substitution  :  and  the  change  is  so 
greatly  and  so  unquestionably  for  the  better,  that  it 
may  well  be  accepted :  as  indeed  it  has  universally 
been. 

The  mention  of  a  happy  substitution  naturally  sug- 


CONCERNING   CUTTING  AND   CARVING.        303 

gests  the  most  unhappy  substitution  on  record.  You 
may  remember  how  the  great  scholar,  Bentley,  puffed 
up  by  his  success  in  making  emendations  on  Horace 
and  Terence,  unluckily  took  it  upon  himself  to  edit 
Milton.  And  here  indeed,  we  have,  with  a  vengeance, 
Raphael  improved  by  the  painter  of  wagons.  Milton 
wrote,  as  everybody  knows  : 

No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible : 
but  Bentley,  eager  to  improve  the  line,  turns  it  to 

No  light,  but  rather  a  transpicuous  gloom. 

There  is  another  passage  in  which  the  contrast  be 
tween  the  master  and  the  wagon-painter  is  hardly  less 
marked.  Where  Milton  wrote, 

Our  torments  also  may  in  length  of  time 
Become  our  elements: 

Bentley,  as  an  improvement,  substituted  the  following 
remarkable  passage, 

Then,  as  "'twas  well  observed,  our  torments  may, 
Become  our  elements. 

It  is  to  be  admitted  that  the  stupidity  of  Bentley's 
reading,  is  even  surpassed  by  its  impudence.  Of 
course,  the  principle  taken  for  granted  at  the  begin 
ning  of  such  a  work  is,  that  Bentley's  taste  and  judg 
ment  were  better  than  Milton's.  For,  you  observe, 
there  was  no  pretext  here  of  restoring  a  more  accurate 


304   CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING. 

reading,  lost  through  time  :  there  was  no  pretext  of 
giving  more  exactly  what  Milton  wrote.  There  was 
no  question  as  to  Milton's  precise  words  :  but  Bentley 
thought  to  make  them  better.  And  there  is  something 
insufferable  in  the  picture  of  the  self-satisfied  old  Don, 
sitting  down  in  his  easy-chair  with  "  Paradise  Lost : " 
and,  pencil  in  hand,  proceeding  to  improve  it.  Doubt 
less  he  was  a  very  great  classical  scholar  :  but  unless 
his  wits  had  mainly  forsaken  him  when  he  set  himself 
to  edit  Milton,  it  is  very  plain  that  he  never  could 
have  been  more  than  an  acute  verbal  critic.  Thinking 
of  Bentley's  "  Milton,"  one  imagines  the  Apollo  Bel 
vedere  put  in  a  hair-dresser's  window,  with  a  magnifi 
cent  wig :  and  dressed  in  a  suit  of  clothes  of  the  very 
latest  fashion.  I  think  likewise  of  an  incident  in  the 
life  of  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis,  the  American  author.  When 
he  was  at  college  in  his  youth,  the  head  of  his  college 
kept  a  white  horse,  which  he  was  accustomed  to  drive 
in  a  vehicle  of  some  kind  or  other.  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis 
and  his  companions  surreptitiously  obtained  temporary 
possession  of  the  horse  ;  and  painted  it  crimson,  with  a 
blue  mane  and  tail.  I  confess  that  I  like  Mr.  N.  P. 
Willis  better  for  that  deed,  than  for  anything  else  I 
ever  heard  of  his  doing:  and  I  may  mention,  for  the 
satisfaction  of  my  younger  readers,  that  the  colors  used 
in  painting  the  horse  were  of  such  a  nature,  that  they 
adhered  to  the  animal  "for  a  lengthened  period,  not 
withstanding  all  endeavors  to  remove  them.  Now 
Dr.  Bentley,  in  editing  Milton,  did  as  it  were  paint 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND   CARVING.       305 

the  white  horse  crimson  and  blue  ;  and  then  exhibited 
it  to  the  world,  saying,  "  That  is  Smith's  fine  horse  !  " 
Nor  should  it  be  accepted  as  any  apology  for  like  con 
duct  on  the  part  of  any  editor,  that  the  editor  in  good 
faith  has  such  a  liking  for  these  colors,  that  he  thinks 
a  horse  looks  best  when  it  looks  blue  and  crimson. 
And  though  the  change  made  by  an  editor  be  not  of 
such  a  comprehensive  nature  as  the  painting  of  an 
entire  horse  anew,  but  rather  consists  of  a  multitude 
of  little  touches  here  and  there  ;  —  as  points  changed, 
capitals  left  out,  and  whiches  for  thats  ;  still  the  result 
is  very  irritating.  You  know  that  a  very  small  infu 
sion  of  a  foreign  substance  can  vitiate  a  thing.  Two 
drops  of  prussic  acid  in  a  cup  of  water:  two  smears 
of  red  paint  across  the  Raphael :  affect  the  whole.  I 
know  hardly  any  offence,  short  of  great  crime,  which 
seems  to  me  deserving  of  so  severe  punishment,  as 
this  of  clipping  the  coin  of  the  realm  of  literature. 

There  is  something,  too,  which  irritates  one,  in  the 
self-sufficient  attitude  which  is  naturally  assumed  by  a 
man  who  is  cutting  and  carving  the  composition  of 
another.  It  is  an  evil  which  attends  all  reviewing, 
and  which  a  modest  and  conscientious  reviewer  must 
feel  keenly,  that  in  reviewing  another  man's  book,  you 
seem  to  assume  a  certain  superiority  to  him.  For  in 
every  case  in  which  you  find  fault  with  him,  you  are 
aware  that  the  question  comes  just  to  this,  —  whether 
your  opinion  or  his  is  worth  most.  To  which  may  be 
added  the  further  question :  whether  you  or  he  have 
20 


306        CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND   CARVING. 

devoted  most  time  and  thought  to  forming  a  just 
opinion  on  this  particular  point.  But  when  a  man 
sits  down  not  merely  to  point  out  an  author's  faults, 
but  to  correct  them  ;  the  assumption  of  superiority  is 
more  marked  still.  And  everybody  knows  that  the 
writings  of  great  geniuses  have  been  unsparingly  cut 
and  carved  by  very  inferior  men.  You  know  how 
Byron  sent  "  The  Siege  of  Corinth "  to  Mr.  Gifford, 
giving  him  full  power  to  alter  it  to  any  extent  he 
pleased.  And  you  know  how  Mr.  Gifford  did  alter 
it ;  by  cutting  out  all  the  good  passages  and  leaving 
all  the  bad.  The  present  writer  has  seen  a  man  in 
the  very  act  of  cutting  and  carving.  Once  upon  a 
time  I  entered  a  steamer  which  was  wont  to  ply  upon 
the  waters  of  a  certain  noble  river,  that  winds  between 
Highland  hills.  And  entering  that  bark,  I  beheld  a 
certain  friend,  seated  on  the  quarter-deck,  with  a  little 
volume  in  his  hand.  I  never  saw  a  man  look  more 
entirely  satisfied  with  himself  than  did  my  friend  ;  as 
he  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  little  volume  in  a 
hasty,  skipping  fashion ;  and  jauntily  scribbled  here 
and  there  with  a  pencil.  I  beheld  him  in  silence  for 
a  time,  and  then  asked  what  on  earth  he  was  doing. 
"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  I  am  a  member  of  the  committee 
appointed  by  the  Great  Council  to  prepare  a  new 
book  of  hymns  to  be  sung  throughout  the  churches  of 
this  country.  And  this  little  volume  is  a  proof  copy 
of  the  hymns  suggested  :  and  a  copy  of  it  is  sent  to 
each  member  of  the  committee  to  receive  his  emen- 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND   CARVING.       307 

dations.  And  as  you  see,  I  am  beguiling  my  time  in 
sailing  down  the  river  by  improving  these  hymns." 
In  this  easy  manner  did  my  friend  scribble  whatever 
alterations  might  casually  suggest  themselves,  upon  the 
best  compositions  of  the  best  hymn  writers.  Slowly 
and  laboriously  had  the  authors  written  those  hymns, 
carefully  weighing  each  word ;  and  weighing  each 
word  perhaps  for  a  very  long  time.  But  in  the  pauses 
of  conversation,  with  no  serious  thought  whatsoever, 
but  willing  to  testify  how  much  better  he  knew  what  a 
hymn  should  be  than  the  best  authors  of  that  kind  of 
literature,  did  my  friend  set  down  his  random  thoughts. 
Give  me  that  volume,  said  I,  with  no  small  indigna 
tion.  He  gave  it  to  me,  and  I  proceeded  to  examine 
his  improvements.  And  I  can  honestly  say  that  not 
merely  was  every  alteration  for  the  worse  ;  but  that 
many  of  the  alterations  testified  my  friend's  utter  ig 
norance  of  the  very  first  principles  of  metrical  com 
position  ;  and  that  all  of  them  testified  the  extreme 
narrowness  of  his  acquaintance  with  that  species  of 
literature.  Some  of  the  verses,  as  altered  by  him, 
were  astounding  specimens  of  rhythm.  The  only 
thing  I  ever  saw  which  equalled  them  was  a  stanza 
by  a  local  poet,  very  zealous  for  the  observance  of 
the  Lord's  day.  Here  is  the  stanza : 

Ye  that  keep  horses,  read  psalm  50 ; 

To  win  money  on  the  Sabbath  day,  see  that  ye  never  be  so  thrifty ! 

In   Scotland  we  have  a  psalter  and  a  hymnal  im 
posed  by  ecclesiastical  authority  :  so  that  in  all  parish 


308        CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND   CARVING. 

churches  there  is  entire  uniformity  in  the  words  of 
praise.  But  it  worries  one  to  enter  a  church  in  Eng 
land,  and  to  find,  as  one  finds  so  often,  that  the  incum 
bent  has  published  a  hymnal,  the  sale  of  which  he 
insures  by  using  it  in  his  church ;  and  all  the  hymns 
in  which  are  cut  and  carved  to  suit  his  peculiar  doc 
trinal  and  cesthetical  views.  The  execrable  taste  and 
the  remarkable  ignorance  evinced  in  some  of  these 
compilations,  have  on  myself,  I  confess,  the  very  re 
verse  of  a  devotional  effect.  And  the  inexpressible 
badness  of  certain  of  the  hymns  I  have  seen  in  such 
volumes,  leads  me  to  the  belief  that  they  must  be  the 
original  compositions  of  the  editor  himself.  There  is 
an  excellent  little  volume  of  Psalms  and  Hymns, 
collected  by  Mr.  Henry  Herbert  Wyatt,  of  Trinity 
Chapel,  Brighton ;  but  even  in  it,  one  is  annoyed 
by  occasional  needless  changes.  In  Bishop  Heber's 
beautiful  hymn,  which  begins  ';  From  Greenland's  icy 
mountains,"  Mr.  Wyatt  has  smeared  the  third  verse. 
The  Bishop  wrote,  as  every  one  knows, 

Shall  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 

With  wisdom  from  on  high, — 
Shall  we  to  men  benighted 

The  lamp  of  life  deny? 

But  Mr.  Wyatt  substitutes  can  for  the  shall  with 
which  the  first  and  third  lines  begin :  a  change 
which  no  man  of  sense  can  call  an  improvement.  A 
hymn  to  which  I  always  turn,  as  one  that  tests  an 
editor,  is  Bishop  Ken's  incomparable  one,  commonly 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING.       309 

called  the  "  Evening  Hymn."  I  find,  with  pleasure, 
that  Mr.  Wyatt  has  not  tried  to  improve  it :  save  that 
he  has  adopted  an  alteration  which  has  been  all  but 
universally  accepted.  Bishop  Ken  wrote, 

All  praise  to  Thee,  my  God  this  night: 

while  most  of  us,  from  childhood,  have  been  taught  to 
substitute  Glory  for  All  Praise.  And  this  is  certainly 
an  improvement.  Glory,  gloria,  is  certainly  the  right 
word  with  which  to  begin  an  ascription  of  praise  to 
the  Almighty.  If  not  in  itself  the  fittest  word,  the 
most  ancient  and  revered  associations  of  the  Christian 
Church  give  it  a  prescriptive  right  to  preference.  A 
hymn  which  no  man  seems  able  to  keep  his  sacri 
legious  hands  off  is  Charles  Wesley's  hymn, 

Jesu,  lover  of  my  soul. 

I  observe  Mr.  Wyatt  makes  three  alterations  in  the 
first  three  lines  of  it,  —  each  alteration  for  the  worse. 
But  I  begin  to  be  aware  that  no'  human  being  can  be 
trusted  to  sit  down  with  a  hymn-book  and  a  pencil, 
with  leave  to  cut  and  carve.  There  is  a  fascination 
about  the  work  of  tampering :  and  a  man  comes  to 
change  for  what  is  bad  rather  than  not  change  at  all. 
There  are  analogous  cases.  When  I  dwelt  in  the 
country,  I  was  once  cutting  a  little  path  through  a 
dense  thicket  of  evergreens ;  and  a  friend  from  the 
city,  who  was  staying  with  us,  went  out  with  me  to 
superintend  the  proceedings.  Weakly,  I  put  into  my 


310        CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING. 

friend's  hands  a  large  and  sharp  weapon,  called  in 
Scotland  a  scutching -knife :  and  told  him  he  might 
smooth  off'  certain  twigs  which  projected  unduly  on 
the  path.  My  friend  speedily  felt  the  fascination  of 
cutting  and  carving.  And  after  having  done  consider 
able  damage,  he  restored  me  the  weapon,  saying  he 
felt  its  possession  was  a  temptation  too  strong  for  him 
to  resist.  When  walking  about  with  the  keen  sharp 
steel  in  his  hand,  it  was  really  impos;-ible  to  help 
snipping  off  any  projecting  branch  which  obtruded 
itself  upon  the  attention.  And  the  writer's  servant 
(dead,  poor  fellow  :  one  of  the  worthiest  though  most 
unbending  of  men)  declared,  with  much  solemnity 
and  considerable  indignation,  that  in  forming  a  walk 
he  would  never  again  suffer  the  scutching-knife  to  be 
in  any  other  hands  than  his  own.  Now,  it  is  a  like 
temptation  that  assails  the  editor  of  hymns :  and  even 
if  the  editor  is  a  competent  man  (and  in  most  cases 
he  is  not)  I  don't  think  it  safe  to  trust  him  with  the 
scutching-knife.  The  only  editor  of  hymns  whom  the 
writer  esteems  as  a  perfect  editor,  is  Sir  Roundell 
Palmer.  For  Sir  Roundell  starts  with  the  determi 
nation  to  give  us  each  hymn  exactly  as  its  author  left 
it.  It  is  delightful  to  read  "  All  praise  to  Thee,  my 
God,  this  night : "  and  to  come  upon 

Jesu,  lover  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly: 

after  "  Jesu,  Saviour  of  my  soul :  '*  and  "  Jesus  refuge 
of  my  soul."  I  remark,  in  Sir  RoundelPs  book,  oc- 


CONCERNING   CUTTING  AND  CARVING.       311 

casional  signs  of  having  taken  a  hymn  from  an  early 
edition  of  the  author's  works  :  which,  in  later  editions 
was  retouched  by  the  author  himself.  Thus  James 
Montgomery's  "  Friend  after  friend  departs,"  is  given 
as  first  published  :  not  as  the  author  left  it.  In  the 
four  verses,  Montgomery  madejfoe  alterations:  which 
are  not  shown  in  Sir  Roundell's  work.  But,  as  one 
who  feels  much  interest  in  hymnal  literature,  and  who 
has  given  some  attention  to  it,  I  cannot  refrain  from 
saying  that  in  the  matter  of  faithfulness,  Sir  Roundell 
Palmer's  book  is  beyond  question  or  comparison  the 
best.  There  is  nothing  second,  third,  or  tenth  to  it. 
It  is  first ;  and  the  rest  are  nowhere. 

Having  mentioned  the  best  hymnal  that  I  know, 
one  naturally  thinks  of  the  worst.  There  is  a  little 
volume  purporting  to  be  Hymns  collected  by  the  Com 
mittee  of  the  General  Assembly  on  Psalmody :  pub 
lished  at  Edinburgh  in  1860.  It  is  to  be  remembered 
that  the  Church  of  Scotland  has  never  approved  this 
little  volume  :  the  committee  have  published  it  on 
their  own  responsibility.  Mr.  Wyatt,  in  making  his 
collection,  tells  us  he  examined  thirty  thousand  hymns, 
and  took  the  best  of  them.  Sir  Roundell  Palmer  also 
gives  us  in  his  volume  the  best  hymns  in  the  lan 
guage.  But  neither  Mr.  Wyatt  nor  Sir  Roundell 
(both  most  competent  judges)  have  seen  fit  to  admit 
much  of  the  matter  contained  in  this  little  compila 
tion.  So  we  may  conclude,  either  that  Mr.  Wyatt 
did  not  find  some  of  these  compositions  among  his 


312        CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING. 

thirty  thousand  :  or  that,  having  examined  them,  he 
did  not  think  them  worthy  of  admission  to  his  collec 
tion  of  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  hymns.  Sir 
Roundell  Palmer's  hymns  number  four  hundred  and 
twelve  :  and  he  has  not  erred  on  the  side  of  exclu 
sion  :  yet  he  has  excluded  a  good  many  of  the  Scotch 
eighty-five.  Out  of  the  first  fifteen  of  the  Scotch 
book,  fourteen  are  unknown  to  him.  And  I  do  not 
think  cutting  and  carving  ever  went  to  a  length  so 
reprehensible,  as  in  this  volume.  As  to  the  fitness  of 
the  hymns  for  use  in  church,  opinions  may  possibly 
differ  :  but  I  arn  obliged  to  say  that  I  never  saw  any 
collection  of  such  pieces  so  filled  with  passages  in  ex 
ecrable  taste,  and  utterly  unfit  for  Christian  worship. 
It  may  amuse  my  readers,  to  show  them  George 
Herbert  improved.  Everybody  knows  the  famous 
poem,  "  The  Elixir."  It  consists  of  six  verses.  The 
Scotch  reading  consists  of  four.  In  the  first  verse, 
three  verbal  alterations,  intended  as  improvements, 
are  made  on  Herbert.  "  Teach  rne,  my  God  and 
king,"  becomes,  "  Teach  ws,  our  God  and  king."  The 
second  verse  in  the  Scotch  reading,  is  unknown  to 
Herbert.  It  is  the  doing  of  some  member  of  the 
committee.  The  gold  has  been  punched  out,  and  a 
piece  of  pinchbeck  has  been  put  in.  Herbert's  third 
verse  is  omitted.  Then  comes  the  well-known  verse  : 

All  may  of  Thee  partake: 

Nothing  can  be  so  mean, 
Which,  with  this  tincture,  FOR  THY  SAKE, 

Will  not  grow  bright  and  clean. 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING.       813 

This  is  improved  as  follows  : 

All  may  of  Thee  partake; 

Nothing  so  small  can  be, 
But  draws,  when  ACTED  for  Thy  sake. 

Greatness  and  worth  from  Thee. 

You  will  doubtless  think  that  Herbert  pure  is  bet 
ter  than  Herbert  improved  by  the  sign-painter.  But 
the  next  verse  is  smeared  even  worse.  Who  does 
not  remember  the  saintly  man's  words : 

A  servant  with  this  clause, 

Makes  drudgery  divine : 
Who  sweeps  a  room,  as  for  Thy  laws, 

Makes  that,  and  the  action,  fine. 

But,  as  Sam  Weller  remarked  of  Mr.  Pickwick 
in  a  certain  contingency,  "  his  most  formiliar  friend 
voodnt  know  him,"  as  thus  disguised : 

If  done  beneath  Thy  laws, 
Even  humblest  labors  shine: 
Hallowed  is  toil,  if  this  the  cause, 
The  meanest  work,  divine. 

Herbert's  temper,  we  know,  was  angelic :  but  I 
wonder  what  he  would  have  looked  like,  had  he  seen 
himself  thus  docked,  and  painted  crimson  and  blue. 
No  doubt,  "  The  Elixir,"  as  the  master  left  it,  is  riot 
fitted  for  congregational  singing.  But  that  is  a  reason 
for  leaving  it  alone  :  it  is  no  reason  for  thus  unpar- 
donably  tampering  with  the  coin  of  the  realm. 

There  are  various  pieces  in  this  unfortunate  work, 
whose  appearance  in  it  I  can  explain  only  on  this 


314       CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING. 

theory.  Probably,  some  day  when  the  committee 
met,  a  member  of  committee  produced  a  manuscript, 
and  said  that  here  was  a  hymn  of  his  own  composi 
tion  ;  and  begged  that  it  might  be  put  in  the  book. 
The  other  members  read  it,  and  saw  it  was  rubbish : 
but  their  kindly  feeling  prevented  their  saying  so  : 
and  in  it  went.  One  of  the  last  things  many  people 
learn,  is  not  to  take  offence  when  a  friend  declines  to 
admire  their  literary  doings.  I  have  not  the  faintest 
idea  who  are  the  members  of  the  committee  which 
issued  this  compilation.  Likely  enough,  there  are  in 
it  some  acquaintances  of  my  own.  But  that  fact  shall 
not  prevent  my  saying  what  I  honestly  believe  :  that 
it  is  the  very  worst  hymn-book  I  ever  saw.  I  cannot 
believe  that  the  persons  who  produced  it,  could  ever 
have  paid  any  attention  to  hymnal  literature  :  they 
have  so  thoroughly  missed  the  tone  of  all  good  hymns. 
Indeed,  many  of  the  hymns  seem  to  be  formed  on  the 
model  of  what  may  be  called  the  Scotch  "  Preaching 
Prayer :  "  the  most  offensive  form  of  devotion  known  ; 
and  one  entirely  abandoned  by  all  the  more  cultivated 
of  the  Scotch  clergy.  I  heard,  indeed,  lately,  an  in 
dividual  pray  at  a  meeting  about  the  Lord's  day.  In 
his  prayer,  he  alluded  to  the  Lancashire  distress  :  and 
informed  the  Almighty  that  the  patience  with  which 
the  Lancashire  people  bore  it  was  very  much  the 
result  of  their  being  trained  in  Sunday-schools.  But, 
leaving  this  volume,  which  is  really  not  worth  farther 
notice,  let  me  mention,  that  in  the  first  twelve  lines  of 


CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING.       315 

"  Jesu,  lover  of  my  soul,"  there  are  ten  improvements 
made  on  Wesley.  "  While  the  tempest  still  is  high," 
has  nigh  substituted  for  high.  "  Till  the  storm  of  life 
is  past,"  is  made  "  Till  the  storms  of  life  are  past." 
"  Oh  receive  my  soul  at  last,"  has  And  substituted 
for  Oh :  for  no  conceivable  reason.  And  the  familiar 
line,  "  Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee,"  has  been 
turned,  by  the  wagon-painter,  into  "  Clings  my  help 
less  soul  to  Thee."  I  ask  any  intelligent  reader.  Is 
not  this  too  bad  ?  All  my  readers  know  that  I  am  a 
clergyman  of  the  Church  of  Scotland,  for  whose  use 
these  hymns  have  been  so  debased  and  tampered  with. 
They  never  shall  be  sung  in  my  church,  you  may  rely 
on  it.  And  the  fact,  that  this  cutting  and  carving  has 
been  done  so  near  home,  serves  only  to  make  me  the 
more  strongly  to  protest  against  it. 

If  it  were  not  far  too  large  a  subject  to  take  up 
now,  I  should  say  something  in  reprobation  of  the 
fashion  in  which  many  people  venture  to  cut  and 
carve  upon  words  far  more  sacred  than  those  of  any 
poet :  I  mean  upon  the  words  of  Holy  Scripture. 
Many  people  improve  a  scriptural  text  or  phrase  when 
they  quote  it :  the  improvement  generally  consisting 
in  giving  it  a  slight  twist  in  the  direction  of  their  own 
peculiar  theological  views.  I  have  heard  of  a  man 
who  quoted  as  from  Scripture  the  following  words  : 
"  It  is  appointed  unto  all  men  once  to  die  ;  and  after 
death  ffett."  It  was  pointed  out  to  him  that  no  such 


316       CONCERNING  CUTTING  AND  CARVING. 

statement  exists  in  Scripture  :  the  words  which  follow 
the  mention  of  death  being,  "  and  after  this  the  judg 
ment."  But  the  misquoter  of  Scripture  declined  to 
accept  the  correction,  declaring  that  he  thought  his 
own  reading  was  better.  I  have  heard  of  a  revival 
preacher  who  gave  out  as  his  text  the  words  "  Ye 
shall  all  likewise  perish."  Every  one  will  know  what 
a  wicked  distortion  he  made  of  our  Saviour's  warning 
in  thus  clipping  it.  And  I  have  heard  texts  of  Scrip 
ture  pieced  together  in  a  way  that  made  them  convey 
a  meaning  just  as  far  from  that  of  the  inspired  writ 
ers,  as  that  conveyed  by  the  well-known  mosaic,  "And 
Judas  departed,  and  went  and  hanged  himself :  "  "  Go 
thou  and  do  likewise." 

Probably  the  reader  is  tired  of  the  subject.  I 
thank  him  for  his  patience  in  following  me  so  far : 
and  I  shall  keep  him  no  longer  from  something  more 
interesting. 


CONCLUSION. 


WAS  sitting  by  my  study  fire  this  even 
ing  in  a  rocking-chair,  in  the  restful  inter 
val  between  dinner  and  tea,  and  thinking 
how  I  should  conclude  this  volume.  In 
that  meditative  state,  my  attention  was  drawn  to  a 
little  girl  who  was  sitting  on  the  floor  a  little  way  off, 
sewing,  and  at  the  same  time  talking  to  herself. 

These  were  her  words  ;  —  they  were  spoken  slowly, 
in  a  pensive  tone,  and  with  considerable  pauses  be 
tween  the  sentences. 

"  Once  I  thought  a  great  deal  of  a  shilling.  Now, 
I  think  nothing  of  it.  I  am  accustomed  to  shillings. 
I  think  nothing  even  of  a  pound.  I  have  got  one 
myself,  and  I  thing  nothing  of  it." 

You  see,  the  freshness  and  edge  of  enjoyment  were 
gone,  through  habit.  Shillings  had  become  too  many, 
and  so  they  were  not  now  the  great  things  they  used 
to  he.  And  after  all,  it  was  no  very  great  number  of 
shillings  which  had  sufficed  to  produce  this  result. 

Listening  to  the  little  girl's  meditation,  I  thought  of 


818  CONCLUSION. 

my  volume.  It  is  still  a  curious  feeling  to  see  one's 
thoughts  in  print.  The  page  that  bears  what  you 
have  yourself  written,  my  friend,  has  always  a  pe 
culiar  expression,  —  an  expression  that  is  familiar  and 
yet  strange.  And  there  is  still  more  of  the  singular 
feeling  it  imparts,  when  you  look  at  an  entire  volume 
of  your  own.  But  more  than  one  or  two  have  pre 
ceded  this,  and  the  writer  begins  to  feel  towards  a 
volume  as  the  little  girl  said  she  felt  towards  a  shil 
ling.  Yet  not  quite  as  the  little  girl  said  she  felt. 
The  freshness  is  somewhat  gone,  yet  the  publication 
of  a  new  book  is  a  little  epoch  in  a  quiet  life.  I 
suppose  the  Editor  of  a  daily  newspaper,  seeing  him 
self  in  print  every  day  of  his  life,  if  he  pleases,  and 
often  finding  it  his  duty  to  write  upon  subjects  in 
which  he  feels  no  great  personal  interest,  must  cease, 
in  a  few  years,  to  feel  any  special  attraction  to  the 
columns  that  have  come  from  his  own  pen.  There  is 
less  likelihood  of  that,  in  the  case  of  a  writer  whose 
productions  see  the  light  at  much  longer  intervals. 
And  you  may  remember  how  Southey,  who  wrote 
probably  more  in  quantity  than  any  English  author 
of  the  present  century,  with  but  two  or  three  ex 
ceptions,  tells  us  that  he  retained  to  the  last  the 
keen  interest  of  a  quite  fresh  writer  in  his  own  arti 
cles.  When  a  new  Quarterly  appeared,  he  was  quite 
impatient  if  it  were  a  day  too  late  in  reaching  him. 
I  have  no  doubt  he  cut  all  the  leaves  before  reading 
any,  for  Southey  was  a  man  of  an  orderly  turn  ;  but 


CONCLUSION.  319 

I  am  sure  he  read  his  own  paper  the  first.  And  he 
says  he  always  found  it  very  fresh  and  interesting 
reading,  and  he  conveys  that  he  generally  thought  it 
very  good.  As  indeed  it  was.  The  shillings  did  not 
lose  their  value,  many  as  they  might  grow. 

There  have  been  cases  in  which  the  successive 
shillings  grew  always  more  precious.  You  will  think 
of  Sterne,  who  appreciated  his  own  writings  so  highly, 
and  who  used  to  write  to  his  friends,  as  he  was  draw 
ing  each  succeeding  volume  of  " Tristram  Shandy*'  to 
a  close,  that  this  new  volume  was  to  be  by  far  the 
best.  The  present  writer  can  say  sincerely  that  each 
succeeding  volume  of  these  Essays,  which  you  may 
have  read,  has  been  the  result  of  more  care  and 
thought.  He  does  not  write  now  in  the  vague  hope 
that  perhaps  somebody  may  read  what  he  writes ;  he 
has  the  certainty  of  finding  very  many  kindly  readers. 
And  he  is  not  able  to  write  now  in  the  unconstrained 
way  in  which  he  wrote  the  first  of  those  chapters,  in 
days  when  not  one  of  his  rustic  parishioners  ever  saw 
a  page  which  he  put  forth.  He  is  conscious  now  of 
the  check  which  comes  of  the  pervading  sense,  that  a 
great  many  of  the  flock  intrusted  to  his  care  recog 
nize  in  what  he  writes  a  familiar  hand,  and  can 
compare  what  is  written  on  these  pages  with  what  it 
is  his  duty  to  teach  them  elsewhere.  He  ventures  to 
believe  that,  in  spirit,  there  is  no  inconsistency.  And 
he  knows  that  in  the  judgment  of  those  whose  judg 
ment  he  values  most,  there  is  none. 


320  CONCLUSION. 

There  is  but  little  time,  in  the  life  of  a  hard-work 
ing  parish  clergyman,  for  writing  anything  beyond 
that  which  it  is  imperative  to  write.  And  one  may 
sometimes  think,  with  a  wearied  sigh,  even  in  the 
midst  of  duty  which  is  very  dear,  of  the  learned  quiet 
and  leisure  of  canonries  and  deaneries,  such  as  our 
poor  Church  has  not,  —  sadly  despoiled  of  that  which 
is  by  right  her  own.  Yet  the  habit  of  the  pen  grows 
into  a  second  nature,  and  reserved  folk  never  talk  out 
their  heart  so  freely  as  when  talking  to  all  the  world. 
And  if  we  live,  friendly  reader,  I  think  we  shall  meet 
again. 


THE   END. 


CAMBRIDGE:  PRINTED  BY  H.  o.  HOUGHTON. 


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